ftrtie 

Btg  Octaoe 


of4 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

FROM  THE  PAPERS  OF 
Frederick    J.    Mosher 


A  Book  of  True  Lovers 


A  BOOK  OF 
TRUE  LOVERS 


J%i  OCTAVE  THANET 


[SECOND  EDITION] 


CfllCAGO.WAY  AND 
WILLIAMS,  i  6  g  7 


Copyright,  1897,  by  Way  &  Williams. 
The  Cover  Designed  by  Mr.  J.  C.  Leyendecker. 


Note 


"The  Strike  at  Glasscock's  "  was  first 
published  in  the  Northwestern  Miller,  "The 
Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift  "  and  "  The  Court 
of  Last  Resort,"  in  Peterson's  Magazine 
(1893),  "The  Dilemma  of  Sir  Guy  the 
Neuter,"  in  Scribner's  Magazine,  "The 
Ladder  of  Grief,"  in  McClure's  Magazine, 
"Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered,"  in  Har- 
per's Bazar,  and  "The  Captured  Dream," 
in  Harper's  Magazine. 


Nothing   is    sweeter   than    Love,    nothing 

stronger,  nothing  higher, 
Nothing  wider,  nothing  more  pleasant, 
Nothing  f idler  or  better 
In  heaven  or  on  earth. 

—  Thomas  a  Kempis. 


To  the  Gentle  Reader 


Mine  Unknown  but  Dearly  Esteemed  Friend: 

It  hath  been  a  pleasure  for  me  to  gather  into 
this  little  volume  a  few  stories  regarding-  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  the  adventures  and  misadventures  of 
divers  true  lovers  whom  I  have  known,  trusting 
that  such  may  be  of  profit  and  entertainment. 

The  lovers  in  the  first  tale,  albeit  of  small 
pretense  to  sentiment  or  to  daintiness  of  living-, 
were,  none  the  less,  of  assured  faithfulness,  and 
fond  of  each  other  in  their  mute  fashion.  The  hero 
of  the  old  world  tale  that  followeth,  did  prefer  his 
honor  to  friendship  and  the  strong  movings  of  com- 
passion and  even  to  love  itself,  yet  seemeth  to  me, 
nevertheless,  a  true  lover.  In  the  Judgment  on 
Mistress  Swift  are  two  lovers,  one  of  whom  was  al^ 
ways  true,  and  the  other  found  love  only  through 
grief  and  shame,  seeing  first  the  false  love,  before 
her  soul  recognized  the  true.  While  Abbylonia,  as 
the  speech  of  the  vulgar  runneth,  "  didn't  know 
when  she  was  well  off, ' '  and  mistook  true  love  for 
the  feeble  counterfeit  that  fails  under  the  trials  of 
a  common  journey  into  the  world;  yet  for  her  is 
great  excuse,  since  there  is  no  lonelier  lot,  nor  one 


fuller  of  gallsome  toil  and  privation,  than  that  of 
the  farmer's  wife.  There  is  no  excuse  for  the  weak 
creature  whose  faithful  wife  appealed  to  the  court 
of  last  resort,  but  since  she  was  satisfied  with  her 
sorry  bargain  he  is  admitted  to  the  company. 
Whatever  his  faults,  the  man  whose  grief  became 
the  ladder  whereon  he  climbed  to  a  higher  and 
more  unselfish  love,  was  a  true  lover.  And  the  old 
couple  in  "  The  Captured  Dream  "  were  the  truest 
lovers  of  all.  If,  my  dear  friend,  you  perceive  that 
the  love  herein  depicted  deals  more  with  married 
folks  than  with  youths  and  maidens,  may  I  humbly 
suggest  that  as  we  should  call  no  man  happy  until 
he  be  dead,  so  likewise  may  we  hesitate  to  call  a 
lover  true  until  he  hath  been  proved  by  marriage, 
which  is  as  a  fire  or  an  ireful  acid,  releasing  all 
the  volatile  and  unsubstantial  elements  of  love, 
and  leaving  only  the  pure  gold  of  the  heart. 

That  so  much  of  it  remains  in  the  marriages 
of  our  Anglo-Saxon  race  is  the  happiest  omen  for 
us  as  a  people. 

Having  thus  sketched  the  lovers  in  each  tale, 
it  is  for  you  to  choose  which  you  may  care  to  read, 
and  for  me  to  wish  you  all  happiness  in  your  own 
loves,  present  and  to  come. 

I  am  your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  STRIKE  AT  GLASSCOCK'S  .  1 

THE  JUDGMENT  ON  MRS.  SWIFT  .  23 

THE  DILEMMA  OF  SIR  GUY  THE  NEUTER  77 

THE  COURT  OF  LAST  RESORT  .  143 

WHY  ABBYLONIA  SURRENDERED  .  169 

THE  LADDER  OF  GRIEF     .        .  .  219 

THE  CAPTURED  DREAM      .        .  .  259 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 


*Tis  in  vain  to  kick  when  a  man  is  once  fet- 
tered. —Montaigne. 

F  you  call  these  arrangements  primi- 
tive,"  said  my  friend,  the  colonel, 
flashing  his  white  teeth  through  the  lint- 
dusted  atmosphere  of  the  cotton  gin,  and, 
with  one  sweep  of  the  arm,  indicating  the 
three  chambers  of  the  mill  —  cotton  gin, 
lumber  mill  and  grist  mill  —  "if  you  are 
moved  to  your  very  unnecessary  and  im- 
polite mirth  by  such  little  trifles  as  engines 
running  without  a  fence  around  them,  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  a  mill  I  saw  last 
week."  Then,  being  properly  importuned, 
he  told  me  about  it. 

"  I  was  riding  through  the  bottom,  after 
some  timber  I  wanted  to  look  at,  with  a  view 
to  selling,  and  somehow  I  lost  my  way.  I 
came  out  on  a  new  clearing.  I  never  had 
seen  it  before,  or  the  fence  about  the  thrifty 
garden,  or  the  house  of  lumber,  built  tight, 


2  The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

and  three-fourths  painted,  with  a  man  on  a 
ladder,  slapping  the  yellow  paint  on  the 
battened  walls;  or  the  shed  of  a  mill  on  the 
river  bank,  under  a  great  water  oak.  Not 
a  wisp  of  smoke  drifted  out  of  the  rusty 
stovepipe  that  was  the  mill  chimney.  There 
wasn't  a  sound,  either,  except  the  calls  of 
the  birds  and  the  cheeping-  of  a  crowd  of 
chickens  in  the  front  yard. 

"I  hailed  the  man,  and  he  gx>t  his  neck 
and  one  shoulder  around  far  enough  to  stare 
at  me. 

"' That  a  mill?'  says  I. 

"  'Used  to  be,  yesterday,'  says  he. 

"  *  Sell  me  some  meal  for  my  horse  ? ' 

"  *  No,  sir.     All  out,  and  ain't  runninV 

" « What 's  the  matter  ?' 

"  *  Crew  on  a  strike. ' 

"  « What 's  the  matter  with  them  ? ' 

"The  man  deliberately  hooked  his  pail 
over  the  ladder,  and  leisurely  descended. 
He  was  a  long-,  gaunt  old  fellow,  well  griz- 
zled, and  his  tough  old  face  was  scored  with 
a  network  of  wrinkles.  His  gray  beard  had 
a  close  curl  to  it,  as  had  his  silky  gray  hair, 
and  his  blue  eyes  twinkled  in  a  half  shrewd, 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.  3 

half  humorous  way  that  was  rather  prepos- 
sessing-. He  was  clean,  too,  which  is  a  dis- 
tinction in  some  parts  of  this  country.  *  Ob- 
stinate as  the  devil,'  I  said  to  myself,  *  but 
most  likely  honest,  and  knows  a  joke  when 
he  sees  one.'  I  knew  he  was  fixing*  to  tell 
me  the  whole  story  the  minute  he  swung 
off  from  the  ladder. 

"'Set  down,'  said  he;  'mought  as  well 
res'  you'  hoss  a  spell ;  hot  day  to-da}',  and 
mussiful  man  's  mussif ul  to  his  beastis,  ye 
know.  Have  drink  er  muscadine  cider  ?' 

"  He  brought  a  drink  that  came  out  of  a 
stone  jug  slung  in  the  well,  and  tasted  cool 
and  pleasant.  In  return  I  handed  him  a 
cigar  ;  and  we  were  at  once  on  most  amica- 
ble terms.  '  Yes, 'he  resumed,  *  'tis  kinder 
embarrassin',  Saturday  comin'  on  to-mor- 
rer,  and  most  like  folks  comin'  round  fer 
meal,  to  be  fixed  this  here  way ;  an'  I  tole 
the  widder  so,  but  thar  warn't  no  movin'  of 
her.' 

"< The  widow?' 

"'Yes,  sir'  — he  had  one  of  the  soft, 
slurring  voices  that  you  don't  hear  out  of 
the  south,  voices  that  linger  on  the  vowels, 


4  The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

and  let  the  consonants  get  along-  by  them- 
selves; for  my  part  I  like  to  hear  our  people 
talk,  just  for  the  sound  of  it — *yes,  sir,  the 
widder,  my  wife.  Nice  a  woman  as  you  '11 
ever  meet  up  with,  and  good  a  cook,  tew, 
but  the  Lord  made  most  wimmen  fools,  and 
all  on  'em  stubborn.  And  once  git  her  set, 
thar  ain't  no  movin'  of  the  widder.  So  here 
I  be,  with  nothin'  but  my  own  cookin'  to 
depend  on,  an'  mill  shut  down.' 

"  *  You  mean  your  wife  and  you  have 
parted? '  said  I,  using  the  common  expres- 
sion of  the  country. 

"' Parted  be  d d!'  bawled  he,  firing 

instantly,  '  parted  nothin' !  Didn't  I  tell  you 
she  ben  on  the  strike? ' 

"  'And  your  mill  crew  also? ' 

"  *  Well,  stranger,'  was  his  sardonic  com- 
ment, '  you  don't  look  nigh  as  dumb  as  ye 
be.  Bless  ye,  she  air  the  crew  I ' 

"' The  mill  crew?' 

*' '  Yes,  sir,  the  plumb  crew;  how  much 
of  a  crew  do  you  expect? ' 

" « Aren't  you  a  little  short-handed? ' 

" 4  Course  we  ain't.  Come  down  to  that 
mill  and  I  '11  show  you.  We  got  a  daisy  en- 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.  5 

gine>  peart  as  ye  cud  ask.  I  run  the  saw 
when  we  air  a-sawin',  and  she  pumps  the 
bar'l  full  er  water ;  and  we  got  a  inspirator 
to  draw  it  into  the  engine,  and  when  we 
use  that  up  we  stop  and  fire  her  up  agin. 
She  pumps  the  water  and  chops  up  the 
slabs  that  I  saw  off  fur  the  engine^  and  I 
run  the  saw  or  the  grist.  Every  feller  that 
comes  dips  his  own  sack  full  out  of  the  box 
and  feeds  the  huller,  tew;  so  we  don't  have 
nare  trouble.  We  didn't — tell  she  struck.' 

"'Why  did  she  strike?' 

"  '  Well,  it  warn't  fur  wages,  ezackly,  nor 
it  warn't  agin  the  union  —  natchelly  not, 
seein'  we  air  the  union  ourselves.  What 
ruined  our  fambly  is  just  cravin'  fur  style 
and  show,  and  the  natchell  yearnin'  of  wim- 
men  to  have  their  own  way.  We  'd  of  been 
married  thirty-three  year  come  next  Sep- 
tember, and  we  hain't  never  had  no  'casion 
fer  havin'  a  house  paintid,  when  she  got  it 
inter  her  head,  or  Susan  Ma'y  put  it  thar, 
that  she  wanted  a  paintid  house.  She  tole 
me  of  a  Sunday  that  she  'd  ben  dwellin'  on 
the  idee  fur  a  right  smart. 

"'"Ye    best    ondwell,    then,1'    says    I. 


6  The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

"Paint  air  onhealthy,  and  I  don't  want  none 
er  it  in  mine. "  "  Tain't  neither, ' '  says  she ; 
"  the  cholera  is  comin',  and  the  doctors  say 
paint — fresh  paint — is  a  perventatative," 
says  she,  terrible  uppish.  But  it  warn't  no 
perventatative  she  ben  ayfter.  It  ben  fur 
the  looks  of  the  thing-,  and  I  knowed  it.  Ye 
see,  the  widder  allus  had  a  hankerin'  fur 
fine  thing's.  We  ain't  g-ot  no  less  'n  four 
rockin'  cheers  to  our  house.  Fact.  And 
she  won't  w'ar  a  sunbunnit  to  church.  Got 
to  have  a  bunnit  or  a  straw  hat.  An'  she 
kinder  tolled  me  inter  paintin'  an'  paperin' 
inside  tell  we  was  so  dadg-ummed  fine  she 
cudn't  have  my  old  dog  inside  in  muddy 
weather.  'Clare,  that  made  me  mad.  An' 
what  made  me  madder,  she  had  to  git  a 
stove  in  the  room,  an'  I  hadn't  nare  plaice 
on  earth  to  spit  in  'cept  a  box!  What  do 
you  reckon  'bout  that?  Air  that  the  way  to 
treat  a  self-respectin'  citizen  with  a  white 
skin — makin'  of  him  spit  in  a  box?  Oh,  it 
air  all  Susy  Ma'y,  her  daughter — /  knows 
her.  She  married  a  man  ain't  g-ot  no  no- 
tions 'cept  to  please  her !  Dretf ul  fool 's  ye 
ever  did  see !  Makes  a  heap  er  money  run- 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.  7 

nin'  a  mill,  an'  got  a  house  fur  her  made 
outer  a  book.  Yes,  sir,  I  seen  it  in  the  book. 
Gits  thing's  fur  his  mill  outer  a  book,  tew. 
Has  high  's  fifteen  men  foolin'  with  that 
mill,  an'  lumber  ain't  planed  a  bit  better  'n 
mine.  Got  a  cotton  gin  on  it,  and  grinds 
cotton,  tew.' 

"It  was  plain  his  disapproval  of  his  son- 
in-law  struggled  with  pride  in  his  posses- 
sions; but  I  had  seen  that  sort  of  thing  be- 
fore, and  I  knew  enough  to  keep  my  mouth 
shut.  He  went  on  describing  the  glories 
of  Susan  Ma'y's  house  and  yard.  She  had 
a  carpet  with  roses  on  it,  and  china  vases, 
and  a  clock,  and  a  gold  watch,  and  curtains 
in  the  windows,  and  lamps  with  white 
shades  over  the  chimneys  made  it  light  as 
day  all  night.  'And  she  puts  the  widder 
up  to  all  manner  er  nonsense, '  he  concluded, 
ferociously. 

"  *  That's  your  step-daughter,  I  suppose,' 
said  I,  to  keep  the  conversation  brisk,  and 
get  the  old  man  in  the  humor  to  let  me  get 
some  meal,  somehow,  for  my  horse.  The 
poor  beast  had  the  lampers,  and  needed 
soft  food. 


8  The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

"  *  Step-daughter ! '  said  he,  sharply ;  *  no, 
she  ain't ;  widder  an'  me  ain't  never  ben 
married,  'cept  to  each  other.' 

"  *  Oh,  it  was  only  from  her  being-  called 
Mrs. — your  wife's  daughter,  and  you  call- 
ing- your  wife  the  widow,'  I  hazarded. 

"  *  That 's  'cause  she  favors  her  maw,  an' 
ain't  got  nare  sense  like  me,'  he  snarled 
back.  *  Ain't  you  never  heard  married 
folks  talk  afore?  An'  I  calls  her  the  widder, 
'cause  if  I  was  to  die  she  wud  be  the  widder 
Glasscock,  wudn't  she?  She  'd  stay  so, 
too  !  An'  she  mought  ez  well  beg-in  to  hear 
it.  We  ain't  got  nare  nother  child  nor  Susan 
Ma'y,  neither.  Now  you  g-ot  us  straight  in 
you' mind,  stranger?'  / 

"« I  reckon,  'said  I. 

"  *  Well,  so  ye  have,  I  kin  go  on  to  the 
p'int.  We  kep'  at  it.  She  ben  wantin'  of 
me  to  take  a  paper,  "so  we'll  know  the 
news,"  says  she.  I  says,  "We  ain't  no 
need  er  news,  'cept  what  we  kin  git  oncet  a 
month,  at  preachin',"  but  I  says,  when  this 
come  up,  "If  I'll  git  ye  a  paper  oncet  a 
week  will  ye  quit  bellerin'  at  me?"  Says 
she,  "I  dunno  how  to  b'ar  hit  without  we 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.  9 

git  the  house  paintid."  "Ye  cayn't  have 
the  house  paintid,"  says  I,  "  but  I  '11  git  ye 
the  paper."  And  I  done  got  her  the  paper. 
And  she  read  it  to  me  reg'lar.  She  kin 
read  the  best  in  the  world,  right  off;  nev' 
does  have  to  stop  an'  spell,  not  even  to 
whisper  words  off  to  herseff.  An'  she  use 
to  read  all  'bout  them  strikes  an'  sich  — 
reckon  ye  know  on  'em? ' 

"•I've  heard,  'said  I. 

"  '  Kinder  fool  things,  to  my  notion,  but 
she  got  dredful  struck  by  'em.  An'  she 
kep'  at  me  'bout  the  paint — axed  me  twicet 
in  one  week — "say,  squire,  ain't  you  goin' 
to  paint?" — jest  like  that,  mighty  fine  an' 
mincin'.  "  No,  I  ain't,"  says  I;  "you  quit 
you'  foolin'  'bout  paint  or  I  '11  quit  you!  "  — 
jest  like  that,  awful  stern  an'  determined. 
I  'lowed  it  wud  shet  her  up.  Sayd  it  to  her 
twicet.  Fust  time  she  didn't  say  nary,  jest 
taken  a  bite  on  her  snuff  stick,  an'  santered 
off.  Nex'  time  she  says,  right  low  an' 
pleasant,  "  Say,  squire,  if  I  was  to  pay  fur 
the  paint  wud  it  make  ary  differ  in  you' 
feelin's?"  "You  ain't  got  nare  money," 
says  I,  fur  I  knowed  she  done  spent  ever' 


io         The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

last  cent  she  got  from  her  chickens  on  a  colt 
she  bought  fur  me  ter  go  ridin'. '  His  coun- 
tenance wore  the  queerest  expression  over 
the  last  sentence ;  I  believe  he  wanted  to 
convey  to  me,  without  telling,  that  his  rebel- 
lious wife  really  did,  as  we  call  it  down  here, 
set  a  heap  of  store  by  him.  He  went  on, 
scraping-  the  dried  paint  off  the  palms  of 
his  hands  as  he  talked,  with  his  finger  nails. 
1 "  You  ain't  got  nare  money."  I  sayd  that. 
"  How  come  ye  cayn't  let  me  work  it  out  at 
the  mill?"  says  she.  "  I  isn't  to  pay  you  fur 
workin'  to  the  mill,"  says  I;  "I  never  did 
pay  ye  one  cent."  "  Time  ye  begun,  then," 
says  she,  "fur  I  don't  'low  to  strike  nary 
nuther  lick  ter  the  mill  tell  ye  gives  me  you' 
word  'bout  that  ar  paint."  "  Oh,  you'  goin' 
to  strike,  be  ye?"  says  I.  "All  right  fur 
you."  And  I  went  home,  mad.  I  cudn't 
someway  b'ar  to  be  beat  by  her  cussedness, 
and  I  kep'  a-turnin'  an'  a-turnin'  it  over,  an' 
studyin'  'bout  it,  an'  I  reckon  I  got  madder 
an'  madder,  fur  to  tell  ye  the  hones'  truth, 
stranger,  I  ben  fixin'  ter  give  in  to  that  ar 
fool  woman,  seem'  how  she  did  work  so 
good  ever'  other  way;  an'  fact  is,  I  had 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.         1 1 

bought  that  ar  paint  to  the  store — leastways 
I  had  priced  it — an'  I  'lowed  if  she  begged 
right  hard  I  cud  ride  over  an'  git  it,  nex* 
mornin',  mud  not  bein'  more  'n  shoe-mouth 
deep,  nowhar,  an'  road  good.  So,  natchelly, 
that  made  me  all  the  madder,  me  meanin' 
so  well  by  her,  an'  her  cuttin'  up  rough  that 
way,  an'  doin'  me  so  mean!  So — we  was 
out  to  the  paschure — we  all  got  a  right  fine 
paschure  an'  some  mighty  nice  cows — an' 
she  ben  a  milkin'  when  I  named  the  matter 
to  her — so  I  jest  lit  out  an'  leff  her  a-milk- 
in'.  Didn't  offer  to  holp  tote  the  pails  or 
nothin';  jest  went  a-streakin'  back  with  my 
mad  up!  Say,  stranger,  you  married?' 

"I  said  I  was  so  fortunate. 

"•Well,  then,'  and  he  rolled  the  scrap- 
ings of  paint  into  a  ball  in  the  hollow  of  his 
palms,  and  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  *  then  you 
know  thar  ain't  nare  nother  critter  on  earth 
kin  make  ye  mad  as  you'  wife;  an'  looks 
like  the  more  ye  think  on  her,  the  madder 
she  kin  rile  ye.  I  ben  that  mad  I  cudn't 
see  straight;  an'  when,  as  I  turned  away, 
all  choked  up,  I  heerd  the  swish,  splash  of 
the  milk  drappin'  into  the  pail,  steady  like, 


12          The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

an*  knowed  she  hadn't  turned  a  h'ar  fur 
all  my  r'arin'  an'  chargin' — looked  like  I 
wanted  to  spite  her  wuss  'n  I  ever  did  want 
anythin' !  But  I  turns  'round,  an'  I  sayd, 
"Mistress  Glasscock,"  says  I,  "to-morrer 
is  Saturday,  an'  thar  is  like  to  be  ten  men, 
maybe,  'long- here  to  have  their  corn  ground. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  ye  won't  holp  me 
with  them  men  a-grindin' ? "  "I  mean  I 
done  struck,"  says  she,  "like  them  men 
you  read  on.  You  knows  on  what  terms 
I'll  come  back — the  house  prommussed  to 
be  paintid."  An'  she  went  at  the  cow  agin, 
swish,  splash.  "  All  right  fur  you !  "  says  I. 
And  I  never  did  turn  my  head  on  her  agin, 
but  I  walked  right  spang  home,  and  I  went 
in,  an'  I  nailed  a  bar  agin  all  three  er  the 
doors,  an'  then  I  got  the  kettle  an'  the  coffee 
pot  on  the  stove,  an'  went  out  an'  cut  some 
meat  an'  got  it  a-sizzlin',  an'  I  sot  down. 
D'reckly  I  heerd  her  a-comin'.  Then  she 
tried  the  door.  We  didn't  have  nare  locks 
nur  bolts  on  the  doors,  an'  I  'lowed  she  mis- 
trustid ;  but  I  set  dumb  's  a  wil'  hog  when 
ye  stick  him.  One  by  one,  she  tried  ever' 
last  door.  Then  she  spoke.  "  What  is  you 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.         13 

aimin'  to  do,  Sam  Glasscock?"  says  she, 
kinder  flustered  like;  an'  I  answered  back, 
"You'  mig-hty  sharp,  Mistress  Glasscock, 
but  you  cayn't  cut  me.  I  read  the  papers, 
tew.  If  you'  a-strikin',  I  'm  a-lockin'  ye  out. 
That  ar  's  what  I  air  aimin'  at,  Mistress 
Glasscock!'" 

"  He  paused  to  let  me  appreciate  the  im- 
pressiveness  of  his  retort,  and  flung-  the 
little  ball  of  paint  at  a  hen  that  had  strayed 
into  the  garden  and  was  nibbling-  at  the 
rows  of  peas. 

"  *  What  did  she  say,'  said  I. 

"  He  sighed  heavily,  and  said :  *  She  jest 
kinder  laughed,  rig-ht  spiteful  like,  an', 
ayfter  a  plumb  minnit,  endurin'  wich  she 
hadn't  made  nare  sound  er  rattlin'  the  win- 
ders, nur  poundin'  on  the  doors,  nur  nary, 
an'  I  ben  kinder  coolin'  off,  she  sayd:  "  Sam, 
if  ye  want  to  fix  it  that  a  way,  you  kin ;  but 
when  ye  want  me  back,  remember  I  ain't 
a-comin',  less  'n  to  a  paintid  house."  She 
nev'  did  say  nuthin'  more.  I  waited  on  her 
to  speak,  cause  I  ben  gettin'  more  an'  more 
cooled  off,  but  I  didn't  hear  nuthin',  an' 
bymeby,  when  I  come  to  look  out ' — he  got 


14         The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

up,  frowned  and  shook  himself  as  a  dog 
will,  you  know,  before  he  concluded — *  well, 
that 's  all;  she  were  plumb  gone! ' 

"  Somehow,  for  all  his  bravado,  I  guessed 
that  it  had  hurt  him. 

"In  a  moment  or  two,  he  went  on  his 
plaint,  with  his  back  to  me:  'We  all  ben 
man  an'  wife  fur  thirty-three  year,  an*  we 
ain't  never  did  ben  apart  a  night  before ;  an' 
it  ben  ever'  mite  her  fault,  I  tole  myself. 
But  I  reckon  I  hadn't  orter  locked  her  out. 
Hay,  stranger  ? ' 

"  *I  reckon  you  would  have  done  better 
to  have  let  her  in  and  talked  it  over  peace- 
ably, '  said  I. 

"  *  You  reckon  I  best  paintid  the  house  f  er 
her?'  It  was  comical,  the  way  he  flung 
those  sentences  over  his  shoulder  at  me, 
never  once  turning  around. 

"'  Can  you  afford  it?' 

"'Course  I  kin.' 

"'  Hasn't  she  been  a  good  wife  to  you, 
every  other  way  ? ' 

"  *  Ain't  I  done  tole  ye  that  ?  Nobody  in 
this  yere  kentry  has  got  a  better  woman 
than  me.' 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.         15 

"Still  he  kept  his  broad  back  to  me;  but 
his  shoulder  wriggled  at  each  question. 

"  *  You  'd  better  give  in,  then,'  said  I. 

"  He  exploded  in  a  second,  flung  himself 
round  on  me,  swinging  his  fists  and  snort- 
ing, swelling  like  an  enraged  hen. 

"  *  Give  in, '  he  screamed,  '  you  bet  I  won't 
give  in!  I  ain't  that  kind  er  man  —  /ain't! 
Why,  look  a  here,  I  fund  out  better  'n  that 
by  the  papers.  Ain't  she  struck?' 

"' Surely,'  said  I. 

"  *  Ain't  I  done  locked  her  out  ? ' 

"  *  So  it  appears,'  said  I. 

"  *  Well, '  triumphantly  he  spread  his  hands 
apart,  glistening  with  paint,  *  what  do  they 
do  in  the  papers  in  these  yere  contests 
atween  labor  an'  capitil  ?  Is  labor  —  that 's 
her  —  goin'  to  give  in?  Not  much;  it  ain't 
got  the  sense  1  Is  capitil  —  that's  me  — 
goin'  to  lay  down  ?  Never ! '  —  he  slapped 
his  painted  jeans  with  a  sounding  thud  with 
both  hands — *  Well,  how  is  you  to  manage  ? 
How  does  them  great  contestin'  pyarties 
manage?  Why,  nobuddy  gives  in.  They 
finds  somebody  they  kin  have  confidence  in, 


1 6         The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

an'  they  leaves  it  to  him,  an'  both  on  'em  will 
abide  by  his  decidin'.' 

"  '  I  see,'  said  I  gravely,  *  and  I ' 

"  *  You  air  the  arbitration  committee,  an' 
don't  you  ferg-et  it.  You  decide  fur  paint, 
paint  it  is  ! ' 

"I  ventured  to  sug-g-est  that  he  had 
started  on  the  paint  before  the  committee 
decided.  His  foot  was  already  on  the  last 
round  of  the  ladder  and  his  hand  out- 
stretched to  unhook  the  pail ;  but  he  cast  a 
withering-  glance  at  me.  *  Stranger, '  he  re- 
marked, in  a  low,  impressive  voice,  *  I  done 
lived  on  my  own  cookin'  ever  sence  last  Fri- 
day week ;  an'  does  you  reely  reckon  I  air 
goin'  to  monkey  round  yere  waitin'on  a  arbi- 
tration committee  an'  doin'  nuthin'?  No,  sir. 
I  knowed  aforehand  what  a  decent  arbitra- 
tioner  wud  say,  an',  w'ilst  I  ben  waitin'  fur 
one  to  come  by,  I  jest  laid  the  paint  on  lively. 
It  '11  be  all  on  afore  sundown,  this  evenin,' 
an'  I  kin  git  to  Susan  Ma'y,  my  daug-hter's, 
afore  long-;  an'  the  widder  has  jest  natchelly 
got  to  submit  to  the  arbitrationer,  tew,  an' 
come  'long-  home ;  an'  ef  the  fraish  paint 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.         17 

makes  her  plumb  sick,  tainH  nare  fault  er 
mine  !     An'  I  never  will  paint  agin.' 

"So  saying-,  he  addressed  himself  so 
vigorously  to  his  painting-  that  I  rather  felt 
myself  in  the  way.  However,  I  interrupted 
him  long-  enough  to  inquire  my  road,  and 
then  I  took  it,  since  cornmeal,  under  the 
present  strained  relations  of  labor  and  capi- 
tal at  Glasscock's,  seemed  out  of  reach.  I 
had  not  g-one  very  far  before  I  came  upon* 
what  we  call  a  hack;  that  is,  a  spring- wag-on 
drawn  by  a  very  g-ood  pair  of  horses,  and 
driven  by  a  woman  much  better  dressed 
than  one  will  often  see  on  a  country  road. 
Beside  her  sat  a  little,  wiry,  meek-faced  old 
woman  in  a  sunbonnet.  I  didn't  need  to  see 
them  turn  down  the  cross-road  to  Glass- 
cock's,  to  make  out  that  there  had  been 
some  sort  of  an  arbitration  committee  for 
the  party  of  the  second  part,  also. 

"  I  lodg-ed  that  nig-ht  not  far  from  the  mill, 
and  in  the  morning- 1  rode  back  to  it.  The 
smokestack  was  puffing  away.  Outside  a 
small  fig-ure,  in  a  sl)x>rt  blue  g-own,  was 
swinging-  an  ax  with  a  most  extraordinary 
agility.  It  was  the  crew  of  the  mill,  evi- 


1 8         The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

dently,  going-  to  work  with  that  zeal  which 
is  always  mentioned  in  the  newspapers  after 
a  strike  ends.  The  mill  itself,  on  nearer 
approach,  turned  out  to  be  a  mere  shell. 
There  was  a  funny  little  engine,  and,  sure 
enough,  there  were  the  barrel  and  the  pump 
and  the  inspirator ;  and  as  soon  as  the  bar- 
rel was  pumped  full  the  engine  could  start 
up.  While  I  halted  my  horse  and  looked 
through  one  side  (it  had  all  one  side  open, 
so  no  doors  were  needed),  the  whistle  blew 
and  the  engineer  began  to  pump ;  in  no  time 
the  mill  started  up. 

"  Within  the  grist  mill  there  was  a  pile  of 
corn  on  the  floor,  and  old  Glasscock  was 
shoveling  corn  into  the  box  of  the  sheller. 
The  corn  cobs  poured  out  at  one  end  and 
the  shelled  corn  came  in  a  more  or  less 
jerky  stream  from  the  middle.  Glasscock, 
at  intervals,  would  stop  shoveling  and  kick 
the  pile  of  corn  away  from  the  mouth  of  the 
sheller.  Presently,  the  water  barrel  being 
emptied,  the  mill  shut  down.  While  the 
mill  crew  heaped  slabs  into  the  furnace  the 
miller  sifted  the  corn  through  a  clumsy 
wire  sieve  and  then  put  it  into  the  funnel 


The  Strike  at  Glasscock's.         19 

above  the  buhr  stones.  He  threw  off  the 
belt  from  the  sheller  and  set  the  grist  mill 
going-;  and,  as  soon  as  the  wheezing-  of  the 
desultory  little  engine  was  heard,  the  meal 
began  to  come  snowing-  out  of  the  funnel 
below.  There  was  a  box  ready  to  receive 
it,  and  this  box  he  emptied  into  the  barrel 
standing-  near. 

"  Noticing-  my  horse's  shadow  on  the 
floor,  he  glanced  up.  He  beckoned  to  me  to 
approach.  *  That's  her!'  he  said,  drop- 
ping his  voice  and  gazing  with  undisguised 
pride  and  satisfaction  on  the  busy  little 
figure ;  '  ain't  she  a  terror  to  work  ?  Ain't  it 
worth  arbitratin'  a  leetle  to  git  sech  a  crew 
back?  An'  she  don't  put  on  no  airs.  She 
done  begged  my  pardon,  right  humble. 
Wudn't  mad  me  fur  nuthin',  now.  Don't 
she  keep  a-movin'  peart,  though  ?  Sayd  she 
nev'  would  say  paint  to  me  agin.  This  yere 
eggsperience  done  humbled  her  shore  — 
plumb  humbled  her  1 ' 

"He  dwelt  with  such  unction  on  the 
words,  and  she  did  seem  so  mild  a  creature, 
that  I  began  to  wonder  where  the  victory 
in  the  present  contest  between  labor  and 


2O        The  Strike  at  Glasscock's. 

capital  really  belonged.  Wondering,  I  de- 
parted, although  they  pressed  me  to  stay, 
and  I  began  to  see  then  a  lively  gratitude 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Glasscock  that  has  given 
me  many  a  frying  chicken  since.  Just  as  I 
was  leaving,  old  Glasscock  sidled  up  to  me. 
'Say,'  he  muttered,  'most  like  you'll  be 
goin'  by  the  store  at  the  cross-roads;  say, 
tell  'em  to  mix  me  up  another  batch  er  that 
paint.  It'll  be  time  fur  the  second  coat 
next  week  ! '  " 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift 

•v/  O 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

i. 

There  is  nothing  good  nor  evil  save  in  the  will. 
— Schopenhauer. 

LY  one    omnibus?"    said    Mrs. 
Swift. 

There  are  two  omnibuses  in  Flowering 
Bridge,  one  pink,  one  blue ;  and  they  pro- 
vide a  striking-  feature  for  funeral  pro- 
cessions. True  enough,  there  was  only 
one,  the  blue  one,  to-day.  It  was  a  pitiful 
little  train  that  plodded  through  the  whitish- 
gray  dust  past  the  Dagget  piazza;  first  the 
omnibus,  next  the  hearse  and  the  single 
shabby  landau  of  the  village  livery  stable, 
with  Marcia  Wright  in  the  corner  behind 
her  black  veil  and  the  curtain  that  could  be 
pulled  down — the  other  curtains  stick  fast 
—  then  half  a  dozen  wagons  and  buggies 
filled  with  country  people  in  their  best 
clothes. 


24      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

Mrs.  Swift  scanned/'  every  vehicle  and 
every  face,  from  the  elderly  features  of  the 
pall-bearers  in  the  omnibus  to  Joey  Pratt's 
freckled  round  cheeks  in  the  last  buggy, 
with  a  peculiar  suppressed  interest.  With 
an  equal  interest  of  a  different  kind,  Mrs. 
Dagget  watched  Mrs.  Swift.  She  observed 
that,  as  the  Pratt  bug-gy  showed  its  dusty 
back,  Mrs.  Swift  drew  a  soft  and  tremulous 
sigh.  One  might  easily  take  it  to  be  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

The  two  women  sat  on  the  front  veranda 
of  a  substantial  two -story  house,  newly 
painted,  gray  as  to  the  weather-boarding, 
and  vivid  green  as  to  the  blinds.  It  was 
the  house  of  the  Honorable  Simon  Dagget, 
postmaster  and  principal  storekeeper  of 
Flowering  Bridge.  Mrs.  Swift  had  come  in 
from  her  farm  to  sell  her  weekly  store  of 
butter  and  eggs,  and,  according  to  the  hos- 
pitable rural  custom,  she  had  dined  with 
Mrs.  Dagget.  They  sat  in  rocking  chairs 
under  an  archway  of  rose  bushes  that 
dropped  graceful  tendrils  over  their  heads, 
waiting  for  the  hot  Iowa  sun  to  pass  its  me- 
ridian and  permit  a  cooler  drive  home. 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     25 

"I  see  they  got  the  'Piscopal  minister," 
said  Mrs.  Swift,  smoothing-  her  skirt  over 
her  knees.  Angular  knees  they  were,  Mrs. 
Swift  being  of  a  spare  habit,  and,  moreover, 
disapproving  of  the  waste  of  good  cloth 
in  frivolous  draperies.  Her  hands  were 
tanned,  long,  and  belonged  to  that  square 
type  to  which  chirosophists  ascribe  a  love 
of  order  and  indomitable  will.  They  did  not 
wriggle  at  the  fingers  nor  twitch  the  cloth 
underneath  them ;  having  smoothed  it,  they 
lay  still,  palms  together,  for  they  did  not 
belong  to  a  nervous  woman.  They  matched 
the  flat,  broad  chest  and  the  long  face,  given 
a  square  contour  by  cheeks  sagging  a  little 
with  age.  The  widow  Swift  was  a  very  tall 
woman,  not  bent  the  fraction  of  an  inch  by 
her  sixty-five  years  or  the  rearing  of  five 
boys  to  manhood.  She  had  been  considered 
an  ugly  maiden  and  a  plain  young  wife ;  but 
in  her  silky  gray  hair  and  her  widow's  cap, 
with  her  strong,  bright  eyes  and  a  skin 
more  freshly  tinted  than  is  frequent  in  the 
west,  she  was  a  handsome  elderly  woman. 
Her  unvarying  composure  lent  a  dignity  to 
her  presence;  whoever  observed  her  per- 


26      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

ceived  that  here  was  a  nature  out  of  the 
common.  Her  companion  was  stout,  rosy, 
and,  judged  by  rural  standards,  far  better 
dressed  than  Mrs.  Swift — who,  in  fact,  had 
not  altered  the  cut  of  her  severe  black 
gowns  since  Elder  Alpheus  Swift's  death, 
twenty-six  years  ago — she  wore  a  figured 
blue  sateen  frock,  draped  and  ruffled.  At 
the  widow's  speech,  she  rocked  more  vigor- 
ously. 

4 'Well,  you  know  Mrs.  Wright,  she  didn't 
like  Brother  Given.  I  guess  she  never  did 
quite  forgive  him  for  marrying  Marcia  to 
that  feller.  Of  course,  she  forgave  the  only 
child  she  'd  got;  but  the  minister  was  dif- 
ferent. He  was  over  in  Marshalltown  cir- 
cuit then,  and  he  said  he  didn't  sense  it 
they  was  a  runaway  couple;  but  she  said  if 
he  didn't  know,  he'd  oughter  known !  When 
they  first  come  back,  there  was  another  pas- 
tor here,  you  know,  and  she  went  regular  to 
church,  but  she  never  went  ayfter  he  come." 

"I  guess  her  leaving  didn't  hurt,"  said 
Mrs.  Swift,  with  a  sneer.  "'Twas  much  as 
she  could  do  to  hire  a  back  pew  on  the  side 
aisle,  and  jest  half  that.  I  did  hear  she 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     27 

promised  ten  cents  a  Sunday,  and  then  had 
to  come  down  to  a  nickel.  And  lately  she 
wrasn't  there,  and  Marshy  was  talking-  how 
she  'd  pay  it  up  all  to  once ;  but  she  ain't 
paid  yit." 

"Poor  thing-!"  the  gentler  woman  ex- 
claimed ;  "  'tain't  like  you,  Hannah,  to  be 
pecking-  at  them  that 's  down,  like  that. 
And  so  liberal  to  the  church  as  she  used  to 
be!  She'd  have  the  society  twice  to  our 
once,  'cause  she  kept  a  girl  the  year  round. 
If  it  hadn't  been  my  ankle  is  so  bad,  I'd  have 
gone  to  the  funeral.  Hannah,  you  'd  feel 
bad  if  you  'd  been  there,  like  I  been,  during 
her  last  sickness.  I  don't  b'lieve  they  got 
a  cent  to  depend  on,  'cept  what  Marshy  gets 
from  her  dressmaking ;  and  that 's  fell  off 
since  Mrs.  Wright  had  to  keep  her  bed  and 
there  was  so  much  tending.  But  she  al- 
ways has  got  something  in  her  hands.  Mar- 
shy 's  dreadful  changed,  Hannah." 

4 'Yes,  lost  all  her  beauty !  I  call  her  real 
homely  now." 

"Well,  I  don't,  then,"  cried  Mrs.  Dagget, 
with  animation;  "there's  something  'bout 
Marshy  Wright's  face  now  that  I  like  bet- 


28      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

ter  'n  I  ever  did.  It 's  the  saddest  face  I 
know,  too.  But,  mercy  knows,  she  has  gone 
through  enough  to  make  her  look  sad !  Look 
at  them,  after  all  they  used  to  have!  Why, 
Hannah,  it  fairly  made  me  sick  to  go  into 
the  pantry,  remembering-  the  kind  of  pantry 
Mrs.  Wright  used  to  keep — never  less  than 
three  kinds  of  preserves  at  her  tea-parties 
and  always  some  pound-cake  or  fruit-cake 
in  a  jar  for  drop-in  company!  Hannah, 
they  didn't  have  so  much  as  a  tumbler  of 
jel.  That 's  so.  Marshy  come  to  me  and 
asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  give  her  a  tumbler 
of  my  green-grape  jel,  'cause  her  ma  craved 
green-grape  jel,  and  she  was  sorter  out  of 
her  head  toward  the  last,  and  fancied  she 
was  well-off  again,  a-living  in  Marshy's 
house,  and  all  the  pickles  and  things  she 
used  to  put  up,  standing  in  the  pantry ;  and 
she  'd  be  asking  Marshy  for  this  kind  and 
that  kind  till  the  poor  girl  didn't  know  which 
way  to  turn.  I  'most  cried  when  she  says : 
'If  you'll  kindly  let  mother  have  the  jel, 
I'll  work  it  out  afterward.'  'You  poor 
child,'  I  says,  'I  guess  your  mother  's  wel- 
come to  anything  in  my  house,  and  don't 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     29 

you  fret ;  it  would  be  a  pity  if,  now  she  is 
back  'mong  her  old  friends,  if  they  can't 
make  her  comfortable.'  And  after  that,  she 
did  let  Sister  Pratt  and  I  fetch  in  thing's 
some.'' 

Mrs.  Dag-get  stopped,  out  of  breath,  to 
wipe  her  kind  eyes. 

Mrs.  Swift  folded  her  arms,  and  in  the 
action  looked  more  immovable,  somehow, 
than  before.  "Who'd  Mis'  Wright  think 
Marshy  was  married  to?"  said  she. 

"Well,"— there  was  a  flutter  in  Mrs.  Dag-- 
get's articulation — "well,  I  didn't  intend  to 
name  it  to  you,  Hannah,  but  she  thought  it 
was — it  was  just  Alpheus  Swift,  and  that 's 
the  truth!" 

"Now  it  will  all  come  out,"  thought  the 
speaker,  doggedly,  "and  I  don't  know  's  I 
care.  'Tain't  near  so  bad  as  what  I  got  to 
say  to  her,  anyhow.  I  s'pose  it 's  my  Chris- 
tion  duty,  though.  Simon  says  'tis.  I  guess 
I'll  jest  make  a  break  now!" 

But  her  courage  oozed  out  at  her  finger- 
tips, which  trembled  over  the  woolenlace  that 
she  was  crocheting,  as  Mrs.  Swift  deliber- 
ately creaked  her  chair  about  to  face  her. 


30      The  Judgment  on  Mrs,  Swift. 

"I  ain't  got  nothing-,"  said  the  firm,  hard 
voice,  "to  say  'bout  a  dying1  woman's  delu- 
sions. But  Marshy  Wright  is  mistaken  if 
she  thinks  she  '11  ever  get  my  consent  to  her 
marrying  my  son.  He  's  got  to  give  up  her 
or  me." 

"But  you  were  willing  before,  Hannah." 
"If  I  was  willing  before,  is  no  reason  I 
should  be  willing  now.  Before,  when  she 
was  engaged  to  Alpheus,  she  was  the  pret- 
tiest and  richest  girl  in  this  county,  and 
there  wan't  nothing  against  her  'cept  being 
a  fool,  like  most  young  girls.  Now  she  has 
let  her  husband,  that  she  jilted  Al  for,  spend 
her  money  and  her  mother's  too;  and  her 
husband  's  in  the  penitentiary,  and  she  ain't 
got  a  cent  "nor  even  a  right  to  her  name,  for 
she 's  divorced  from  him.  She  's  jest  a  sort 
of  outcast." 

"Hannah,  how  can  you  be  so  hard?  " 
"I  ain't  hard;  I  'm  just.  I  may  as  well 
speak  out,  now  I  'm  about  it.  I  never  was 
willing;  I  never  liked  them.  Marshy  was 
spoiled  by  going  east  to  boarding  school ; 
she  couldn't  find  nothing  good  'nuff  for  her, 
west,  ayfter  that,  and,  naturally,  when  that 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     31 

city  feller  come  along-,  that  had  been  to  col- 
lege, and  wore  store  clothes,  and  could  make 
fun  of  us  to  Marshy,  Al  hadn't  no  show  !" 
Little  mottles  of  red  had  crept  into  Mrs. 
Swift's  cheeks,  her  calm  voice  was  deep- 
ened and  roughened.  Mrs.  Dagget  mar- 
veled over  the  repressed  passion  in  her  face 
and  the  unloosening-  of  her  tongue,  for  she 
was  a  taciturn  woman.  The  good  soul  did 
not  understand  that  the  yeasty  brooding 
of  months  was  having  its  way.  "  I  knew 
well  'nuff  what  it  meant  when  Al  wasn't 
satisfied  no  more  to  eat  in  the  kitchen,  and 
was  everlastingly  scrubbing  his  finger- 
nails! Ellen  Dagget,  you  call  me  hard;  jest 
s'pose  your  boy,  that  was  your  baby  and 
used  to  love  you  better  'n  any  critter  on 
earth  —  you  seen  him,  evening  ayfter  even- 
ing, slickin'  himself  up  and  going  off  to  be 
poked  fun  at  before  his  girl;  and  you  seen 
him  fooling  away  the  money  he  'd  worked 
so  hard  for,  making  her  presents  that  was 
laughed  at  and  hid  away  out  of  sight,  while 
the  city  feller's  books  was  strutting  'bout 
the  parlor  table,  and  flowers  here  and  flow- 
ers there,  that  come  by  the  cars,  and  was 


32      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

wilted  'fore  you'd  really  got  the  smell  of 
'em  into  your  nose !  Never  mind,  they  was 
all  right  and  beautiful,  'cause  they  come 
from  him!  And  go  on;  s'pose  you  seen 
your  boy  growing  poorer  and  poorer  and 
paler  and  paler,  jest  wearing  the  flesh  off 
his  bones  with  worry,  and  then,  when  she 
sends  him  off,  he  won't  let  his  own  mother 
say  a  ha'sh  word  about  her  —  no,  I  cayn't 
feel  to  pity  her.  It 's  a  judgment." 

Mrs.  Dagget  was  watching  the  funeral 
train  ;  she  could  not  decide  whether  it  had 
been  joined  by  another  buggy.  She  said 
sorrowfully  that,  if  Marcia  Wright  had 
done  wrong,  she  had  certainly  been  pun- 
ished. 

"  She  had  ought  to  be  punished, "retorted 
Mrs.  Swift ;  "it 's  a  plain  judgment  on  folly 
and  a  haughty  spirit." 

"Well,  sister,"  Mrs.  Dagget  pleaded, 
mildly,  "it  runs  in  my  mind  always  what 
David  says:  'If  it  comes  to  going  by  our 
merits,  oh  Lord,  who  shall  stand?'  Think 
of  what  a  pretty  critter  she  did  use  to  be, 
and  every  young  man  in  the  place  goingwild 
over  her;  was  it  funny  her  head  was  turned? 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     33 

Think  of  what  she  had  to  bear,  too,  him 
drinking-  and  gambling  and  squandering 
her  mother's  money,  as  well  as  hers;  yes, 
and  spending-  it  on  such  critters  as  he  did, 
too !  I  don't  blame  her  for  g-etting-  a  divorce ! 
And,  Hannah,  I  do  say,  if  Marshy's  sinned, 
she  has  repented,  too,  and  tried  to  atone 
and  walk  humble  before  the  Lord;  and 
long-  's  He  says  He  won't  break  the  bruised 
reed,  I  don't  feel  it 's  my  duty  to  hit  it  a 
lick." 

Mrs.  Swift  was  a  woman  who  did  not 
value  the  last  word;  she  had  said  what  she 
had  to  say ;  for  the  rest,  Mrs.  Dagget  might 
work  her  will  on  the  Scriptures.  She  rocked 
in  silence,  with  her  mouth  firmly  closed. 

After  a  pause,  the  pacific  Mrs.  Dagget 
essayed  a  pleasanter  topic,  remarking:  "I 
heard  you  paid  off  the  last  on  your  mort- 
gage, Hannah.  I  'm  real  pleased." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Swift,  her  counte- 
nance relaxing;  "  we  have  the  whole  of  the 
new  farm  paid  for  now.  It  feels  queer ;  we 
ain't  been  without  a  mortgage  since  Elder 
died,  twenty-six  year,  come  next  Sunday." 

"  You  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  Hannah 


34      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

—  you  left  with  five  men  children  to  raise, 
and  the  oldest  only  ten,  and  the  youngest 
creeping-  under  feet." 

"I  ain't  complaining.  The  Lord  seen  me 
through,  and  the  boys  are  good  boys,  if  they 
are  scattered." 

"I  s'pose  thirty  thousand  dollars  wouldn't 
buy  your  and  Alpheus's  farms  together." 

"No,  ma'am.  And  it  will  be  all  Alpheus's 
some  day,  for  the  other  boys  got  their  sheer, 
to  take  out  in  the  world.  Alpheus  and  me, 
we  stuck  to  the  farm.  Ellen,  I  cayn't  tell 
you  the  way  I  felt  when  I  handed  Al  the 
hundred  and  fifty-two  dollars  I  had  laid  by. 
He  was  expecting  to  sell  a  colt  to  raise  that 
money ;  he  'd  no  notion  of  me  having  any 
sich  sum.  But  I  was  not  going  to  have  him 
sell  that  colt  he  wanted  to  drive ;  it 's  Al's 
besetment  he  wants  to  drive  a  good  hoss. 
That  makes  me  think  I  better  be  gitting 
along  with  mine;  it's  not  overly  warm  no 
more.  You  see,  I  cayn't  take  my  time  and 
pleasure,  like  I  used ;  I  got  a  girl  now.  Al, 
he  would  have  me  git  one." 

"What's  your  hurry?  She  can  look  ayfter 
the  supper." 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     35 

"Hmn!"  grunted  Mrs.  Swift,  grimly 
jocular,  *  'who  '11  look  ay  ft  er  the  girl?  She 
bust  the  door  off  the  oven,  last  time  I  left 
her  to  look  ayfter  things;  had  a  turkey  in 
and  plumb  forgot  to  baste  it,  and  it  dried  up 
and  bust  with  a  pop  like  a  cannon.  Well, 
pray  for  patience!  maybe,  if  we  both  live 
long  enuff,  she  '11  learn  something.  I  tell 

Al "  She  broke  off,  startled  at  her 

friend's  worried  look,  instead  of  the  smile 
she  had  expected.  uAir  you  sick  or  any- 
thing, Ellen?"  she  asked,  in  a  very  gentle 
tone. 

"Oh,  I  cayn't  tell  her,any  way  on  earth!" 
was  the  thought  that  had  puckered  Mrs. 
Dagget's  brows.  She  did  not  tell  her  then; 
she  allowed  Mrs.  Swift  to  reproach  her  for 
walking  recklessly  on  her  lame  ankle ;  she 
sat  passive,  while  the  old  woman  went  into 
the  house  to  put  on  the  linen  duster  and 
large  hat  that  should  ward  off  -sun  and  dust, 
her  conscience  pummeling  her  every  sec- 
ond ;  but,  when  the  gaunt  figure  reappeared, 
she  took  her  courage  in  both  hands. 

"Hannah,"  said  she,  not  looking  at  Mrs. 


36      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

Swift,  "have  you  heard  of  Miss  Pennell's 
loss?" 

"That  girl  was  visiting-  at  the  'Piscopal 
minister's?  No;  was  it  any  nigh  kin?" 

"No,"  solemnly,  "it  wasn't  no  kin  at  all; 
it  was  her  beautiful  diamond  pin!" 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Mrs.  Swift.  She  was 
civilly  concerned,  but  she  was  not  in  the 
least  agitated. 

Mrs.  Dagget  looked  far  more  nervous  as 
she  continued:  "You  saw  it,  didn't  you? 
Wasn't  you  there  when  she  was  packing-  up 
to  go  'way?" 

Yes — indifferently  —  she  had  come  that 
day  with  butter,  and  she  remembered  the 
pin ;  it  was  right  on  the  sof y  in  the  front 
room,  with  a  lot  of  gewgaws;  a  kinder 
pretty  pin. 

"Pretty?"  screamed  Mrs.  Dagget.  "It 
cost  two  hundred  and  twenty  dollars !  Don't 
you  remember  the  clothes  that  girl  used  to 
wear?  And  she.  gave  five  dollars  to  the 
missionaries !  She  was  dreadful  rich ! " 

"She  must  'a'  been  dreadful  keerless,  to 
leave  her  things  round  so  and  lose  sich  a 
vallerable  pin,"  said  Mrs.  Swift,  calmly. 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     37 

"She  thinks  it  was  stole.  They  was 
called  out  of  the  room  while  she  was  pack- 
ing-; the  girl  had  a  telegraph  for  Miss  Pen- 
nell,  jest  fetched,  and  she  and  Mrs.  Keith 
went  out  together;  and  when  they  came 
back  there  was  the  case  all  right  on 
the  sofy  with  the  rest,  and  she  chucked  it 
into  her  bag;  and  it  was  afterward  Mrs. 
Keith  wasn't  sure  something  was  in,  and 
so  they  took  things  out,  and  the  pin  was 
gone.  It  was  jest  an  empty  case." 

"Well!" 

"When  you  seen  it,"  the  lace  slipped  out 
of  Mrs.  Dagget's  shaking  fingers,  "I  don't 
mean  the  first  time,  but  when  you  come 
back,  was  anybody  in  the  room?" 

"  Not  a  soul,"  said  Mrs.  Swift.  "  I  'd  got 
out  on  the  sidewalk,  when  I  missed  my  little 
black  bag;  so  I  come  back,  and  the  door  of 
that  front  room  stood  on  the  jar,  and  I  says, 
*  Excuse  me,  ladies,'  and  went  in,  got  my 
bag  and  went  out.  It  was  laying  right  on 
the  sofy,  beside  that  pin."  Suddenly  Mrs. 
Swift's  eyes  glazed,  while  the  words  fal- 
tered off  her  tongue.  Whether  it  was  the 
fright  on  the  face  of  her  old  friend,  or  the 


38      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

blinding-  flash  of  recognition  in  her  own 
mind,  she  herself  could  not  have  told. 
"  Why,  merciful  Lord !  I  was  the  last  per- 
son in  that  room!"  she  thought  far  down 
in  her  soul.  "I  was  in  a  hurry  and  I  run! 

But  would  anybody  dast "     The  blood 

was  tingling  along  her  old  veins ;  her  face 
burned  red,  redder,  an  intolerable  hot  scar- 
let. "  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Ellen  Dagget," 
she  cried,  gripping  the  other's  plump  shoul- 
der, "that  anybody  dast  think  I  come  back 
for  anything  'cept  to  get  my  own  bag?" 

"Mrs.  Keith  and  Miss  Pennell,  they  saw 
you,"  stammered  Mrs.  Dagget,  "and  the 

hired  girl " 

"  Do  they  think  I  stole  that  pin?  " 
"Oh,  lawsey,  Hannah,  don't  look  at  me 
that  way.     I  never  thought  it  —  not  for  a 
single  minnit!     You  couldn't!  " 
"  Where  did  you  hear  'bout  it?  " 
Mrs.  Dagget,  weeping,  murmured  some- 
thing about  "  Simon. " 

"  They  been  talking  'bout  it  at  the  store," 
said  Mrs.  Swift.  Releasing  Mrs.  Dagget, 
she  walked  uncertainly  to  the  chair  where 
she  had  sat  in  such  a  different  mood.  And 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     39 

Ellen  had  known  about  it  all  the  time !  She 
sank  down;  the  village  street  flooded  with 
sunshine,  the  small,  cheerful  houses  with 
their  curtains  and  open  windows,  the  bare- 
footed children  making-  a  joyous  din  over 
their  ball,  Tim  Murray's  dog  chasing  the 
Dilworthy  cows  westward  into  a  dust  span- 
gled gold  haze,  all  the  homely  peaceful  scene 
wavered  and  surged  before  her.  But  she 
held  herself  erect  by  the  arms  of  her  chair; 
she  kept  the  even  pitch  of  her  voice.  "Half 
a  dozen  times,  lately,  folks  was  looking  the 
other  way  when  I  passed.  Last  Sunday,  to 
the  song  service,  when  I  got  up  to  give  my 
testimony,  Brother  Given  never  said  a  word 
when  I  sat  down.  Yesterday  I  asked  Ann 
Liza  Forest  to  stop,  going  by,  and  get  a  cup 
o'  tea  and  some  of  my  green  tomato  pre- 
serve ;  I  never  knowed  such  a  thing  as  her 
to  refuse,  but  she  refused  then.  That  's 
what  it  meant." 

"Oh,  Hannah  dear,  I  never  believed  a 
word!" 

"I  been  a  member  since  I  was  called, 
at  the  age  of  fifteen.  I  ain't  fallen  from 
grace,  as  I  know.  I  ain't  had  no  great  to 


4O      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

give,  but  I  gave  willing1  of  what  I  had. 
Alpheus  worked  six  days  to  help  build  the 
church,  and  we  lent  the  teams  to  haul 
lumber.  I  always  paid  my  debts  prompt, 
though  me  and  my  children  went  without 
shoes  more  'n  one  time  to  do  it.  I  sold  the 
red  heifer  to  Brother  Given  for  twenty 
dollars,  because  he  had  my  word,  thoug-h 
Squire  Dilworthy  offered  me  twenty-six. 
Simon  Dag-g-et  knows  my  apples  and  my 
berries  run  jest  the  same  to  the  bottom  of 
the  box." 

"  It  is  only  because  they  saw  you,  and  you 
g-oing-  to  Davenport  and  coming  back  last 
week,  and  having  money  to  give  Alpheus, 
and  his  not  selling  the  colt  —  but  nobody 
thinks  it  —  not  really  —  but  I  knew  you 
could  make  it  —  explain  it  —  and  oh,  Han- 
nah, you  didn't  think  I,  long  's  we  've  known 
each  other,  and  the  way  you  was  to  me  when 

little  Eddy  died,  I  couldn't  —  I "  Here 

poor  Mrs.  Dagget,  at  her  wits'  end,  hobbled 
across  to  the  other  chair  and  wept  over  the 
linen  duster. 

"Ellen  Dagget,  you  shet  up!  Crying 
right  on  the  front  porch,  before  the  whole 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     41 

town!  I  ain't  going-  to  let  this  down  me. 
Get  up  and  set  down  decent." 

In  such  Spartan  semblance  did  Hannah 
Swift  retreat,  notwithstanding-  the  world 
reeled  about  her.  She  would  not  take  a  sip 
of  an  assassinating-  liquor  that  slandered 
the  name  of  brandy,  kept  "for  sickness" 
by  Mrs.  Dagget,  and  reg-arded  with  awe  by 
the  household  —  as  well  it  mig-ht  be!  She 
would  not  have  Rufe,  the  boy  of  all  work, 
fetch  her  horses  from  the  store.  She  re- 
mained about  twenty  minutes  long-er,  mi- 
nutely and  pertinaciously  questioning-  Mrs. 
Dagget;  and  then  she  went  to  the  store  her- 
self, and  drove  by  the  piazza  with  her  elbows 
at  a  sharp  angle,  erect  and  defiant  to  the 
last  glimpse. 

"  Lord  knows  whether  I  done  right  to  tell 
her,  "moaned  poor  Mrs.Dagget  —  who  com- 
pared her  own  sensations,  telling  Simon  of 
it, 'to  a  rag  just  free  from  the  wringer — "but 
it  did  seem  she  had  ought  to  know!  And 
now  I  must  find  that  chicken  pie  to  send  over 
to  Mar cia  Wright." 

At  that  moment,  Marcia  was  lifting  her 
heavy  veil,  as  if  by  the  action  she  could  lift 


42      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

the  heavier  visions  that  encompassed  her, 
and  shaking-  qff  the  dust  that  her  distem- 
pered fancy  feigned  a  symbol  of  the  soil 
cast  on  her  nature  by  a  hideous  experience. 

Eight  months  ago,  the  two  forlorn  ex- 
plorers into  the  world  had  crept  back,  like 
wounded  animals,  to  their  old  home,  Mrs. 
Wright,  stricken  with  a  mortal  disease,  had 
a  homesick  longing-  to  die  among-  the  fam- 
iliar scenes  near  her  husband  's  grave. 
Marcia  could  not  oppose  her.  She  had  no 
hopes,'  and  but  one  fear,  and  that  drew 
closer,  every  day  of  a  failing-  life. 

To  return  to  Flowering-  Bridge  meant 
merely  a  little  heavier  weight  on  her  heart, 
a  wrench  or  two  more  of  the  rack  for  her 
conscience. 

Then  she  met  Alpheus  Swift  again. 

He  had  few  of  the  graces  that  she  used  to 
worship,  but  which  now  seemed  to  her  the 
charms  of  the  snake.  Al  was  a  man  that 
other  men  respected.  He  was  strong,  he 
was  gentle,  he  had  the  delicacy  of  a  good 
heart;  and  he  was  infinitely  kind  and 
thoughtful  to  her  mother.  Insensibly,  the 
sense  of  his  worthiness,  that  she  had  kept 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     43 

through  ail  the  disenchantment  of  her 
wretched  married  life,  was  transmuted  into 
a  keener  feeling.  But  this  only  revealed  to 
her  a  new  sensibility  to  pain  in  her  numbed 
heart,  since  there  were  reasons  that  her 
conscience  could  not  evade,  why  she  might 
not  yield  to  his  tenderness.  To  be  sure, 
one  of  these  reasons  had  been  removed  of 
late;  but  there  was  always  the  other.  In- 
deed, so  worn  and  shamed  was  she  that  she 
almost  esteemed  it  a  fresh  sin  of  hers  that 
she  should  dare  to  love  at  alL 

Even  Mrs.  Swift  would  have  pitied  her 
to-day,  could  she  have  read  the  thoughts  of 
the  woman  she  hated. 

The  carriage  had  passed  the  last  strag- 
gling houses  of  the  village;  Marcia  saw 
tree-tops  over  the  horses'  heads,  maple- 
tops  waving  greenly,  safe  from  the  dust  of 
the  traveled  roads.  The  omnibus  and  the 
hearse  were  already  through  the  gate. 
There  was  a  white  arch  above  it,  and  black 
letters  painted  on  the  arch.  She  could  see 
the  graves  and  the  white  stones.  She  felt 
the  carriage  settle  backward  in  its  place; 
the  driver  —  she  had  known  him  from  a 


44     The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

boy  —  was  at  the  door,  his  reins  over  his 
arm.  "  Say,  let  me  help  you  out,"  he  said, 
"  the  hosses  will  stand."  But  she  thanked 
him  and  walked  to  the  grave  alone,  before 
Mrs.  Pratt  could  scramble  out  of  the  last 
buggy.  The  sun  dazed  her,  and  she  stum- 
bled on  her  black  skirts.  By  the  side  of  the 
road  was  the  open  grave,  lined  with  fir 
boughs.  It  was  kind,  she  thought,  in  the 
sexton,  to  take  away  thus  the  raw  horror  of 
the  upturned  earth ;  and  then  immediately 
she  knew  it  was  not  the  sexton  that  she 
should  thank.  Mrs.  Pratt  came  and  stood 
by  her  side;  the  slender  young1  man  in  the 
surplice  opened  his  prayer  book.  Dully, 
Marcia  felt  grateful  for  the  companionship, 
grateful  that  it  was  not  Brother  Given, 
whom  her  mother  had  not  trusted,  reciting 
those  sentences  of  immeasurable  faith  and 
hope.  But  it  was  more  and  more  dully  be- 
cause her  head  ached  so  queerly  and  it  took 
all  her  will  to  stand.  There  were  moments 
when  she  forgot  where  she  was  and  had  the 
old  sensation  of  needing  to  hurry  in  order 
to  get  home  to  her  mother.  She  would  be 
roused  by  a  pang  like  a  knife  stab,  and  see 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     45 

and  hear,  but  directly  she  would  be  away 
again.  In  one  of  these  conscious  moments, 
she  was  aware  of  the  perfume  of  lilies.  A 
young-  man,  standing-  at  her  side,  held  a 
great  bunch  of  them;  and  while  she  was 
strug-g-ling-  to  focus  her  brain  on  them 
enough  to  recognize  them  and  their  con- 
nection with  her,  this  man  stepped  forward 
and  laid  them  on  the  coffin-lid.  There  were 
other  flowers ;  but  these  were  exotics  from 
the  city,  to  which  the  streamers  of  white 
satin  ribbons  lent  a  formal  pomp.  Once, 
during-  her  sickness,  her  mother  had  said 
that  she  liked  flowers  tied  with  white  rib- 
bon—  she  should  like  some  on  her  coffin; 
because  of  that  speech,  Marcia  had  tied  the 
roses  from  Mrs.  Dag-g-et  with  ribbon.  She 
perceived  that  another  had  remembered 
also.  Remembered  what?  She  was  drift- 
ing again.  There  was  a  creaking  of  straps, 
a  slight  bustle  among  the  men.  Why,  it 
was  her  mother's  coffin  that  they  lowered  — 
her  mother's!  and  she  must  go  back  to  that 
empty  home!  She  swayed  to  one  side;  she 
did  not  care  any  longer  that  she  was  going 
to  faint,  the  anguish  of  her  loss  possessed 


46     The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

her ;  she  did  not  even  know  that  Alpheus 
and  Mrs.  Pratt  led  her  to  the  carriage. 
Alpheus  got  in  after  her;  but  he  had  said 
to  Mrs.  Pratt :  "  Won't  you  go  home  with 
her?"  And  she  had  answered:  "No,  I 
won't,  Alpheus  Swift.  Nobody  can  comfort 
that  poor  girl  like  you ;  you  git  right  in  and 
doit." 

Therefore,  when  Marcia  revived,  she  saw 
him  fanning  her. 

Six  years  had  made  a  man  out  of  the  shy 
and  awkward  lad  that  she  knew.  He  was 
neither  shy  nor  awkward,  having  the  man- 
ner of  a  man  used  to  consideration  from 
others.  He  was  dressed  neatly  and  taste- 
fully, though  hardly  in  the  fashion  of  the 
city.  His  fair,  composed  features  were  like 
his  mother's,  but  they  were  suffused  with 
a  deep  tenderness. 

"I  don't  think  she  would  have  minded, 
dear,"  were  his  first  words,  "and  I  couldn't 
bear  to  have  you  go  back  alone." 

As  she  did  not  reply,  "I  have  two  things 
to  tell  you, "  said  he,  "  for  I  don't  know  when 
you  will  let  me  see  you  again.  I  saw  your 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     47 

mother  that  last  day  you  went  out  with  the 
work,  and  I  told  her." 

Marcia's  breath  came  more  quickly. 

"  She  was  very  kind.  She  said  she  would 
be  glad  to  have  you  marry  me;  she  said  it 
made  her  happy." 

Then  Marcia  recalled  the  delirium  of 
those  subsequent  days,  comprehendingwith 
a  weakening-  of  the  heart  the  reason  for  that 
illusion  of  her  marriage. 

"You  did  make  her  happy,"  she  cried; 
"she  was  happy  at  the  end."  The  tears 
swept  her  words  away.  They  would  not 
come  to  soften  her  own  anguish,  but  at  the 
thought  of  the  peace  that  he  had  brought  her 
mother,  they  rained  down  her  cheeks.  She 
wept  for  a  long  time,  while  he  sat  beside 
her,  not  so  much  as  venturing  to  touch  her 
hand,  lest  he  should  divert  her  grief  into 
the  channel  of  a  crueler  pain.  Only,  he 
laid  a  fresh  handkerchief  from  his  own 
pocket  very  softly  on  her  knee.  She  used 
it  mechanically,  then  she  looked  at  him  and 
said:  "I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  a 
man  treated  as  badly  as  you  that  could  for- 
give so ! " 


48      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

"Oh,  there's  lots,"  said  he,  "you  were 
fair  to  me,  Marcia  —  but  never  mind  the 
past ;  you  are  here,  and  I  am  here,  and  you 
shall  make  it  up  to  me  if  you  want  to.  This 
doesn't  seem  the  place  for  this  kind  of  talk; 
but  if  your  mother  sees  us,  she  under- 
stands. I  am  sure  she  would  have  me  take 
every  chance.  Marcia,  I  have  just  come 
back  from  Anamosa  this  morning-.  What  I 
told  your  mother  is  all  correct,  like  in  the 
warden's  letter.  He  died  a  month  ago." 

"I didn't  doubt  it  before;  but  you  were 
kind  to  go,  Al." 

"  I  promised  her.  They  told  me  he  died 
penitent,"  saidAl,  doggedly,  "and  he  hoped 
you  'd  forgive  him." 

"  I  do  forgive  him ;  it  wasn  't  all  his  fault, 
Al — I  wasn't  so  patient  as  I  ought  to  have 
been." 

Al  said  nothing ;  his  mouth  bore  a  pe- 
culiar resemblance  to  his  mother's.  He  re- 
called with  a  bracing  sensation  his  one  per- 
sonal encounter  with  Marcia's  late  husband 
and  the  severe  thrashing  he  (Alpheus)  had 
given  him. 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     49 

"  Was  he  comfortable  in  the  hospital?" 
said  Marcia. 

"Yes." 

"I  mean,  did  he  have  the  little  things  he 
wanted  —  fruit  and  wine  and  such  thing's?" 

"Yes." 

She  threw  back  her  veil  and  showed  him 
the  ghost  of  a  smile.  "Al,  I  could  always 
see  through  you.  I  believe  you  sent  him 
those  things  yourself !  " 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Al,  frowning.  "I 
supposed  you  would  fret,  someway,  if  he 
didn't  get  them.  Him  —  I  didn't  care  a 
rap  about  him  !  I  didn't  believe  in  his 
palaver." 

A  pause,  during  which  Al  coughed  a  har- 
assing lump  down  his  throat,  but  it  left  his 
tones  husky  as  he  asked:  "Is  there  any 
other  reason  you  got  for  not  marrying  me, 
Marcia?" 

"  You  know  it,  Al." 

"You  mean  mother?  Well,  Marcia,  you 
know  what  I  think.  I  love  my  mother,  and 
I  'm  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  in  reason 
for  her.  She  can  have  her  house  and  the 
biggest  of  the  farms,  and  I  '11  let  her  have 


50     The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

her  say  about  the  stock.  I  know  what  I  owe 
to  her " 

"  Maybe  what  you  don't  know  is  how  she 
loves  you." 

His  answer  was  not  the  answer  that  she 
expected,  although  one  natural  enoug-h  in  a 
lover.  What  he  said  was:  "You  are  an 
ang-el ! " 

But  he  didn't  think  it  natural  that  she 
should  beg-in  to  cry.  "Al,"  she  implored 
him,  "I  disobeyed  my  mother,  and  look 
what  misery  and  shame  it  broug-ht  on  us 
both  —  on  the  innocent  as  well  as  the 
g-uilty  !  Oh,  Al,  don't  you  g-o  and  want  to 
do  the  same  thing- !  Do  you  think  now  I  'm 
just  beginning-  to  realize  what  it  is  to  lose  a 
mother,  I  could  be  plotting-  to  break  your 
mother's  heart?  She  couldn't  bear  it  to 
have  you  marry  me !  She  despises  me. 
Oh,  she  has  g-ot  the  rig-ht  to  despise  me  — 
hush,  dear,"  at  a  passionate  g-estui^e  from 
the  young-  man — "I  know  you  don't,  but 
she  doesn't  know  any  thing- about  me  except 
my  silly,  wicked  folly  1  It  would  be  wicked 
to  bring-  such  sorrow  to  her,  Al !  God  would 
punish  us  —  oh,  I  wouldn't  mind  His  pun- 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     51 

ishing  me,  a  poor,  broken  thing-  as  I  am,  but 
you — you  —  my  darling- " 

Never  before  had  she  used  a  caressing 
word  like  that  to  him,  and  she  could  see  the 
blood  surg-e  up  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes 
flash.  She  moved  away  from  him.  "  Don't 
be  afraid,  dear,"  he  said,  g-ently ;  "I  'm  not 
going-  to  kiss  you !  I  want  to,  and  there  7s 
no  moral  harm  in  it ;  but  I  won't,  not  if  you 
don't  want  me  to.  See,  dear,  just  this ! "  and, 
turning-  back  the  hem  of  her  black  glove, 
he  kissed  her  wrist,  not  ardently,  but  with 
a  solemn  and  reverent  tenderness.  "I  won't 
worry  you  any  more  now;  I  can  wait,'*  said 
he,  "  I  know  you  belong-  to  me." 

"Yes,"  said  she.  They  only  spoke  of 
trivial  thing's  after  this,  until  they  reached 
the  house.  At  the  gate  he  helped  her  out, 
and  Mrs.  Dagget  herself  opened  the  door 
and  took  Marcia  in  her  arms. 
II. 

Shaken  though  she  was,  Hannah  Swift 
did  not  lose  her  reasoning  powers;  but  the 
more  she  rummaged  the  details  of  the  evi- 
dence, the  uglier  it  looked  !  They  must 
have  searched  the  house  thoroughly ;  if  they 


52      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

had  not,  and  the  pesky  thing-  —  which,  to 
Hannah's  mind,  it  was  a  sin  and  a  shame 
for  any  Christian  woman  to  be  wearing-  any- 
how —  had  been  overlooked,  most  like  it  had 
been  swept  up,  carted  off,  flung-  into  the 
ravine  that  the  Dyers  and  the  Pratts  used 
too,  and  Lord  help  anybody  to  find  anything 
in  that  mux  I 

And  there  were  the  three  women  to  prove 
that  she  was  the  last  creature  in  the  house 
before  the  diamond  disappeared.  Not  so 
much  as  a  bird  or  a  dog-  or  a  cat  to  lay  the 
blame  on!  The  Keiths  kept  none  of  them. 
She  could  not  even  prove  that  she  had  the 
money  given  to  Al,  for  it  was  the  piecemeal 
accumulation  of  years,  and  unhappily  she 
had  not  put  it  in  the  bank.  Now  this  sudden 
wealth  bore  witness  against  her. 

Only  one  plan  promised  anything  — 
namely,  to  write  to  Davenport  in  order  that 
she  might  get  proof  that  she  had  not  gone 
to  a  jeweler's  or  sold  any  diamond. 

But  this  was  a  gigantic  undertaking  for 
an  unready  writer.  She  must  needs  employ 
a  penman ;  and  whom  ?  She  recoiled  with 
an  inexpressible  fright  from  the  thought 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     53 

of  applying-  to  Alpheus.  That  her  son 
might  hear  of  the  charge  was  her  daily  ter- 
ror. She  watched  him  like  a  cat.  His  fits 
of  abstraction,  his  ominous  indifference  to 
what  he  ate,  scared  her.  She  tried  to  think 
that  he  was  uonly  fussing  'bout  Marshy." 
Yet  not  a  week  ago  Marcia  had  been  the 
specter! 

Sunday  came,  and  Hannah  went  to  church 
as  usual,  staying  over  to  the  evening  serv- 
ice. 

She  noted  every  averted  glance,  every 
chilled  greeting;  very  likely  she  suspected 
chill  and  aversion  where  they  did  not  exist. 

At  the  evening  service  Brother  Given 
spoke  on  secret  sins.  He  was  a  handsome, 
portly  man,  whose  loud  voice  and  imposing 
stature  gave  an  appearance  of  more  decision 
than  he  will  claim  at  the  judgment  day.  He 
talked  with  a  certain  rude  eloquence,  tell- 
ing pathetic  tales  in  illustration  of  his  theme. 
Many  of  the  women  wiped  their  eyes,  but 
some  merely  used  their  handkerchiefs  as  a 
screen  behind  which  they  could  look  safely 
at  the  Swift  pew.  Hannah  did  not  flinch  in 
a  muscle ;  she  breathed  slowly  and  regularly 


54     The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

and  she  suffered  as  only  a  proud  woman 
can. 

"Confession  and  restitootion, "  roars 
Brother  Given,  "oh,  my  sinful  brother  — 
oh,  my  sinful  sister — they  alone  can  cleanse 
the  soul !  But  make  no  mistake ' '  —  leaning- 
over  the  pulpit  cushions  and  smiting-  the 
palm  of  one  hand  with  the  fing-ers  of  the 
other,  while  his  voice  sinks  to  a  confidential 
semitone  —  "  restitootion,  restitootion  is  the 
greatest  duty!  Confession,  I  say  boldly,  is 
not  as  important  as  restitootion.  Why,  sup- 
pose, let  us  say,  that  you  have  lost  prop- 
erty—  stock,  or  money,  or  land,  or  jewelry 
—  any  sort  of  property ;  do  you  want  your 
poor  sinful  brother,  who  took  it,  to  come 
back  and  confess,  as  much  as  you  want  your 
property  back  ?  You  say,  *  No,  of  course 
not,  Brother  Given  ! '  I  can  imagine  a  case 
where  the  wrong-ed  one  would  say :  "  I  don't 
ask  you  to  confess ;  you  have  led  a  respect- 
able life,  you  may  have  an  innercent  family 
to  consider.  Make  restitootion  —  give  it 
back,  and  go  in  peace ! '  Go  and  sin  no 
more ;  that 's  the  main  point.  Will  Sister 
Pratt  please  lead  us  in  prayer  ?  " 


The  Judgment  .on  Mrs.  Swift.     55 

Not  a  few  of  the  listeners  felt  that  Sister 
Pratt  neglected  an  opportunity  of  grace; 
for,  while  she  dutifully  prayed  that  we 
might  be  given  strength  to  repent  and 
cleanse  ourselves  from  undiscovered  sin, 
she  also  prayed  that  we  be  preserved  from 
prying  into  other  folks'  sins,  and  from  un- 
charitable and  suspicious  minds. 

Mrs.  Swift  waited  to  shake  hands  with 
Sister  Pratt  at  the  door.  She  did  not  thank 
her  for  her  prayer,  but  she  told  her  that  she 
hoped  she  (Sister  Pratt)  would  come  and 
see  her  new  crazy-quilt.  "I  got  a  hull  lot 
of  pieces  left  over, "  said  Mrs.  Swift ;  "maybe 
some  on  'em  would  do  for  yours.  You  Jre 
real  welcome  to  them  !" 

She  was  speaking  when  the  preacher  ap- 
peared and  would  have  edged  by  the  group; 
instantly  she  stopped  him. 

"Brother  Given,"  said  she,  in  a  clear 
voice  of  good  compass,  uyou  give  us  a  pow- 
erful discourse,  and  all  true;  but  what  of 
folks  that  air  suspicioned  and  cayn't  confess 
nor  restitoot  neither,  'cause  they  ain't  done 
it?" 


56      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

"Surely,  sister,  such  cases  will  be  cleared. 
I  was  only  alluding-  to  certain  guilt." 

"Well,  now,  'tain't  so  easy  to  be  certain." 
Thus  good  Mrs.  Pratt  put  in  her  word,  as 
she  placed  her  sturdy  figure  in  the  small 
remaining  portion  of  the  passage-way.  "I  'd 
a  lesson  'bout  that,  this  very  week';  didn't  I 
bile  my  currant  jel  'most  'way  to  nothing, 
jest  'cause  I  was  so  fool  certain  I  'd  put  the 
sugar  in !  I  'd  a-measured  it  and  set  it  away 
in  the  pantry,  and  I  knowed  I  'd  put  it  in ; 
and  why  in  mercy  didn't  that  jel  thick  up? 
But  I  hadn't  put  it  in,  all  the  same !  It  is  a 
sight  easier  making  mistakes  than  taking 
pains  I" 

Meekly  Brother  Given  agreed,  and 
clutched  a  passing  brother,  under  whose 
convoy  he  made  his  retreat.  He  was  a 
peace  loving  man,  who  had  dealt  with  the 
scandal  according  to  the  lights  of  others 
rather  than  his  own;  and  he  was  by  -no 
means  assured  in  his  soul. 

Monday  and  Tuesday,  Mrs.  Swift  did  her 
duty  by  the  family  washing.  Wednesday, 
she  had  occasion  to  come  to  town.  Her  road 
led  past  an  unsavory  restaurant  and  secret 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     57 

liquor  den  of  the  type  that  curses  rural  dis- 
tricts. Half  a  dozen  youths  lolled  on  the 
bench  outside  the  fly-specked  window,  try- 
ing to  persuade  themselves  that  they  were 
bad  young-  men.  They  smoked  and  spat 
vociferously.  At  the  moment  of  Mrs. 
Swift's  passing-,  the  wag-  of  the  party  made  a 
joke,  and  there  was  a  burst  of  coarse  laugh- 
ter.  She  was  sure  that  they  were  laughing 
at  her,  and  whipped  up  her  horses,  her  old 
face  aflame.  She  did  not  rein  the  horses  in 
for  a  long-  way ;  indeed,  her  reckless  driv- 
ing- had  nearly  caused  her  to  run  over  Mar- 
cia  Wrig-ht  on  a  crossing-.  Marcia  carried 
a  great  bundle.  She  looked  white  and  tired, 
in  her  black  clothes. 

Mrs.  Swift's  elbows  widened  to  shorten 
her  reins,  then  she  lashed  her  horses'  backs 
with  them  and  frowned;  she  had  resisted 
an  extraordinary  impulse  to  bid  Marcia  get 
into  her  wagon.  "It 's  right  on  my  way  to 
take  her  home, "  she  had  thought ;  then  with 
a  sneer  at  her  own  movement  of  compas- 
sion, "the  two  outcasts  together  —  that 
would  be  a  show!" 

"I  s'pose  she  does  have  a  hard  time," 


58      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

she  answered  an  invisible  opponent  half  a 
score  of  times,  on  the  way  home,  "but  she 
deserves  it;  I  don't!" 

Whereupon  the  opponent  retorted:  "How 
do  you  know?  Do  you  know,  or  have  you 
been  jealous  and  ready  to  hate  her  because 
your  boy  loved  her?"  And  the  opponent 
asked  questions  about  Marcia's  suffering's, 
and  stung-  Hannah's  torpid  imagination  into 
picturing-  a  disgrace  like  her  own. 

Such  thoughts  g-ave  her  bad  nig-hts.  She 
grew  haggard.  Alpheus  urged  her  to  con- 
sult a  doctor.  She  knew  that  he  watched 
her ;  and  she,  in  turn,  watched  him  with  an 
agony  of  suspicion.  The  next  time  she 
drove  to  town,  she  went  with  a  purpose. 
"Might's  well  ask  her  as  anybody,"  said 
Hannah  Swift;  "I  kin  pay  her." 

Therefore,  when  she  saw  Marcia  on  the 
street,  she  overwhelmed  the  young  woman 
with  amazement  by  asking  her  to  ride.  She 
had  leisure,  sitting  on  the  same  seat  with 
Marcia,  to  study  the  peaked  oval  of  her 
face,  the  hollow  cheeks  that  she  remem- 
bered so  blooming,  the  sunken  eyes  and  the 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     59 

careworn  lines  about  the  mouth  that  used 
to  wear  so  insolent  a  smile. 

"Yes,"  'she  said  to  herself,  "she  does 
look  distressid ;  I  guess  she  has  had  it  hot 
and  heavy,  and  maybe  she  didn't  deserve 
all  on  't!" 

Aloud  she  said :  "Marshy  Wright,  I  guess 
you  know  what  folks  say  'bout  me." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  quavered  Marcia. 

"Well,  do  you  believe  it 's  true?" 

"No,  ma'am;  of  course  not." 

"Course  not?  What  do  you  know  about 
it,  you  're  so  certain?" 

"I  know  you!"  said  Marcia,  with  her 
glimmer  of  a  smile.  Nothing  dies  so  hard 
as  the  sense  of  humor,  and  Marcia's  some- 
times showed  vitality,  still. 

"Hmn,"  said  Mrs.  Swift,  "you're  the 
fust  to  take  'count  of  that.  Well,  how  be  I 
toprovetheliesain'ttrue,  Marshy  Wright?" 

Marcia  colored,  but  she  answered  firmly: 
"I  am  sure  it  was  not  stolen  at  all;  I  am  go- 
ing to  sew  at  Mrs.  Keith's  next  week,  and 
maybe  I  can  see  better  then  how  it  could  be 
lost.  Then  you — you  could  show  you  didn't 


60      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

pawn  any  diamond  when  you  went  to  Dav- 
enport.'* 

"That's  so,  Marshy;  but  I  got  to  have 
somebody  write  for  me."  And  she  stopped, 
hardly  knowing-  how  to  ask  Marcia. 

"If— if  I  could  do  it,  Mrs.  Swift?"  said 
Marcia. 

"I  guess  you  could  do  it  if  you  wanted 
to,"  said  Mrs.  Swift. 

One  bit  of  information  gleaned  from  the 
subsequent  conversation  consoled  her;  she 
gathered  that  Alpheus  knew  nothing-  of  the 
evil  g-ossip — at  least,  he  had  not  discussed 
it  with  Marcia ;  and  by  the  fierce  leap  of 
her  pulses  at  Marcia's  assurance,  the  poor 
mother  knew  what  had  been  that  dread. 
Really,  Al  did  know  nothing ;  the  people  of 
Flowering  Bridge  were  a  kindly  sort,  and 
would  have  been  shocked  at  the  idea  of  tak- 
ing a  son  into  confidence  about  the  dishonor 
of  his  mother. 

But  you  may  be  sure  Marcia  told  him  how 
civilly  Mrs.  Swift  had  greeted  her.  Al  spoke 
no  word  of  gratitude;  but  he  bought  his 
mother  a  new  gown,  and  praised  all  the  poor 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     61 

maid's  disasters  in  bread,  rashly  imputing 
them  to  her  mistress. 

All  this  while,  the  small  community  was 
in  a  state  of  agitation  out  of  all  experience. 
It  seemed  terrible  to  suspect  a  woman  of 
stainless  probity,  a  mother  in  Israel  who 
had  kept  her  word  to  her  hurt;  and  yet — 
who  else  took  the  diamonds?  They  were 
there  when  she  left  the  house  for  the  first 
time,  they  were  left  there  by  the  others, 
they  were  gone  after  her  second  secret 
visit;  and  suddenly  she  has  a  large  unsus- 
pected sum  of  money,  j  ust  when  it  isneeded. 
Mrs.  Dagget's  explanation  of  the  return  for 
the  black  bag1  might  be  granted  without 
affecting-  the  case  against  Mrs.  Swift.  Sup- 
pose she  did  go  back  merely  to  get  the  bag; 
she  found  herself  alone  with  temptation 
sudden  and  great,  she  did  not  see  the  three 
women  watching  her  behind  the  lattice,  she 
thought  herself  safe,  and  she  had  snatched 
the  diamond  and  fled. 

On  the  whole,  public  opinion  drifted  fur- 
ther and  further  away  from  any  theory  of 
innocence. 

Again  Sunday  came.     Mrs.  Swift  sat  in 


62      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

her  pew,  erect  and  calm  as  iron.  Brother 
Given  shrank  from  her  steady  eyes.  If  she 
could  only  have  guessed  how  afraid  he  was, 
and  how  safe  she  was  from  any  sinister  im- 
plications from  him ! 

During-  the  week,  the  replies  to  her  letters 
began  to  come.  By  the  end  of  the  week,  all 
Marcia's  correspondents  had  answered  her 
inquiries.  The  letters  accounted  for  every 
minute  of  Mrs.  Swift's  time  in  the  city; 
Marcia  had  done  her  task  well. 

As  Mrs.  Swift  read  them,  she  smiled. 
Now,  Marcia  could  not  remember  a  smile 
on  the  grim  woman's  face;  i-t  was  wonderful 
how  the  novel  radiance  altered  those  harsh 
features. 

"  You  done  well,  Marshy,"  she  muttered; 
"you  're  a  good  girl!"  And  she  told  Mrs. 
Dagget  that  Marcia  Wright  was  not  "nigh 
sich  a  fool's  she  looked."  From  any  one 
else,  this  might  seem  a  mitigated  compli- 
ment; but  it  approached  enthusiasm  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Swift,  and  was  so  received  by 
her  friend,  who,  she  assured  Simon,  felt  as 
if  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end,  and  was 
obliged  to  "stay  herself"  with  a  punch. 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     63 

Punch  in  that  temperate  household  meant 
a  teaspoonful  of  brandy  to  a  large  tumbler- 
ful of  water;  and,  notwithstanding-  the  bale- 
ful nature  of  the  brandy — bought  at  a  drug- 
store under  oath  that  it  was  for  medicinal 
purposes  only  —  had  never  harmed  a  mor- 
tal. Hannah  Swift  declined  the  punch,  say- 
ing- that  she  feared  it  might  g-o  to  her  head, 
and  she  wanted  all  her  wits  about  her,  be- 
cause she  was  going-  to  "dress  up  "  and 
visit  Mrs.  Keith. 

It  was  part  of  the  curious  reticence  used 
in  the  whole  affair,  that  the  two  women 
should  have  had  no  direct  dealings  regard- 
ing it. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  have  it  out  with 
her!"  said  Hannah. 

Home  she  went,  with  a  lighter  heart  in 
her  breast  than  she  had  carried  for  weeks, 
and  straightway  laid  out  her  best  black 
bombazine  gown,  her  bonnet,  and,  as  a  por- 
tion of  her  garb  of  state,  her  fine  black 
cachemire  shawl. 

"  Sun 's  hot,  but  I  don't  need  to  put  it  on 
till  I  git  right  up  to  the  house,"  she  con- 
sidered; "I  never  could  feel  dressed  up  in 


64      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

jest  my  body  and  no  cape  or  nothing-.  For 
the  Jand's  sake !  if  I  ain't  tore  out  a  hunk  of 
the  fringe !  It 's  gitting  in  and  out  of  that 
pesky  top-buggy,  that 's  what  done  it.  And 
I  got  to  have  that  buggy  to-day,  too.  I  told 
Mike  to  wash  it  off  every  time  I  used  it,  but 
I'll  bet  anything-  he  ain't;  and  goodness 
knows  when  I  used  it  last!" 

On  the  spur  of  the  thought,  she  hur- 
ried out  to  the  barn,  knowing-  that  Mike 
was  disposed  to  neglect  the  "  top-buggy," 
which,  indeed,  was  used  rarely.  Sure 
enough,  there  it  stood  with  the  mud  caked 
on  its  tires. 

"Well,  Mike  and  me  has  got  to  have  a 
reckoning,  right  straight,"  said  Hannah. 

But  fate  had  willed  to  spare  the  erring 
Mike.  Mrs.  Swift,  who  was  slapping  the 
cushions  into  place,  all  at  once  dived  her 
gray  head  under  the  seat,  uttered  a  shrill 
quavering  cry,  and  sank  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor. 

Between  her  limp  fingers,  the  great  dia- 
mond of  Miss  Pennell's  lost  brooch  winked 
at  her  like  an  evil  eye !  A  few  strands  of 
black  worsted  clung  to  the  gold  setting. 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     65 

"The  fringe  of  my  shawl!"  groaned 
Hannah  Swift.  "I  must  'a'  switched  it  off 
the  sofy,  and  it  caught ;  and  when  the  fringe 
tore  out,  gitting  outer  the  buggy,  it  fell  off, 
and  it 's  lay  there  all  this  time,  for  I  ain't 
had  the  buggy  out  sence.  Oh,  Lordamassy, 
'twas  me  stole  it,  ayfter  all!" 

I  hesitate  to  describe  the  blackness  of  the 
next  hours  for  that  honest,  haughty  old 
soul.  No  confession  could  set  her  right 
with  her  world  now ;  there  would  always  be 
a  question  whether  she  had  not  invented 
the  story,  being  frightened  at  the  conse- 
quences of  her  crime. 

Somehow  she  did  get  herself  and  the  dia- 
monds back  to  the  house,  back  to  her  own 
chamber.  The  instincts  of  a  pious  life 
made  her  sink  on  her  knees  by  the  bed, 
just  as  she  had  sunk  there  in  the  other 
great  crisis  of  her  life,  when  her  husband 
died. 

1  'Oh,  Elder,  if  you  was  only  here  to  tell 
it  to ! "  the  crushed  heart  wailed.  She  tried 
to  pray,  but  her  first  words  were  stopped 
on  her  lips  by  a  searing  flash  of  thought: 
"Is  it  a  judgment,  O  Lord?"  she  sobbed, 


66      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

wildly,  "  'cause  I  held  myself  so  high  and 
didn't  show  mercy  to  sinners !  Now,  ain't 
I  be  going-  to  be  'lowed  to  hold  myself  inner- 
cent?  Oh,  Lord,  have  I  got  to  own  them 
fools  was  right?" 

In  the  whole  world,  who  would  believe 
her  now?  Yes,  there  was  one  —  a  woman 
who  had  known  an  equal  bitterness,  a 
woman  whom  she  had  defamed  and  de- 
spised and  misjudged.  "  Marshy  'd  know 
how  I  felt,  and  she  'd  believe  me,  too,"  she 
thought;  "  but  I  got  to  give  it  all  up,  if  I  go 
now.  1  cay  n't  do  that  —  I  cay  n't,  Lord,  I 
cayn't!" 

Nevertheless,  two  hours  later,  she  knocked 
at  Marcia  Wright's  door.  She  marched 
into  her  errand  without  preliminaries: 

"  Marshy,  I  don't  know  what  you  '11  say, 
but  I  jest  found  out  I  stole  that  pin!  " 

"Then  you  took  it  by  mistake,"  said 
Marcia;  "  how  did  it  happen?  " 

Before  the  end  of  Mrs.  Swift's  narrative, 
her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  shin" 
ing;  she  looked  like  her  old  self. 

"And  now,"  Mrs.  Swift  concluded,  dis- 
mally, "I  don't  see  nothing  for  it  but  to 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     67 

take  up  my  cross  and  go  over  to  Mrs.  Keith's 
with  the  pin  and  tell  her  the  hull  story. 
Maybe  they  '11  make  me  confess  in  church, 
too,  and  folks  won't  believe  me  nohow;  but 
if  they  don't,  the  Lord  knows  I  done  my 
best." 

"I  wouldn't  do  any  such  thing-,"  said 
Marcia,  firmly;  "  don't  you  remember  what 
Brother  Given  said  about  restitution  being- 
better  than  confession?  I  g-uess  he  oug-ht 
to  know.  All  you  are  bound  to  do  is  to  g-et 
that  diamond  back  to  Mrs.  Keith ;  and 
that 's  all  Mrs.  Keith  wants,  either!  " 

"  But  what  will  I  say  to  the  woman?  " 

Marcia  rose,  a  new  energy  in  every  poise 
of  her  slim  young-  figure ;  she  laid  her  hands 
on  Hannah's  bowed  shoulders,  she  fixed 
her  shining-  eyes  full  on  Hannah's  despair- 
ing- face,  her  voice  was  sweet  and  hig-h. 
"  Mrs.  Swift,"  said  she,  "  can  you  trust  me 
to  give  that  pin  back?  " 

4 'Mar shy,"  Hannah  Swift  answered,  sol- 
emnly, "I  kin  trust  you  with  anything-  in 
this  world." 

And  then  a  most  strang-e  thing-  happened : 
Marcia,  with  that  transfigured  face,  bent 


68      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

nearer  and  kissed  her.  So  strange  a  thing- 
was  it  that  in  all  her  bewildered  misery 
she  kept  returning-  to  it  and  to  her  own 
sensations. 

"It  was  awful  funny;  and  what  was  fun- 
nier, I  kinder  liked  it!  "  said  she. 

That  which  mig-ht  have  occurred  to  her 
as  yet  a  strang-er  circumstance  than  the 
caress  or  her  own  feeling's  was  the  further 
fact  that,  in  spite  of  knowing-  no  more  than 
her  horses  regarding-  Marcia's  plans,  she 
had  unhesitatingly  promised  secrecy. 

She  went  home  with  a  timid,  unwar- 
ranted, unaccountable  hope  in  her  company. 
But  the  night  was  long,  and  Mrs.  Dagget, 
who  appeared  about  noon,  exclaimed  at  her 
pallor. 

"  Never  mind ;  I  got  news  to  raise  the 
dead,"  thought  the  kind  woman;  u  but  I 
got  to  break  it  gentle." 

By  way  of  breaking  it  gently,  she  fell  on 
Mrs.  Swift's  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Ellen  Dagget,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?  "  cried  Hannah,  sternly.  "  If  you  got 
bad  news,  tell  it ;  don't  go  to  scaring  me 
this  way  I" 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     69 

"Oh,  it  ain't  bad  news;  it's  good. 
They've  found  Miss  PennelPs  pin!'" 

Mrs.  Swift's  knees  gave  way  under  her; 
she  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  Found?  "  she  gasped,  feebly. 

"  Yes,  found.  You  come  right  into  the 
other  room,  where  the  girl  won't  be  run- 
ning in  on  us,  and  set  down,  and  I  '11  tell 
you  the  whole  from  beginning  to  end.  You 
poor  thing?"  Thus  mingling  sympathy 
and  command,  Mrs.  Dagget  propelled  her 
friend  into  the  shelter  of  the  dim  "best 
room,"  and  the  nearest  rocking  chair. 

"Now,  this  is  the  way  of  it,"  said  she: 
"Marcia  Wright,  she's  been  sewing  for 
Mrs.  Keith,  and  she  is  working  on  a  plum- 
colored  dress  that  has  got  those  big,  ex- 
pensive buttons  on  it  to  match;  and  some- 
way, this  morning,  first  thing,  one  of  the 
buttons  got  lost.  Well,  Marcia  set  'em  all 
to  hunting,  and  hunted  herself,  but  no  but- 
ton !  Finally,  says  Marcia:  *  Could  it  have 
got  into  the  rags,  and  where  did  they  keep 
them  ? '  Well,  they  kept  the  good  big  rags  in 
the  rag-bag,  and  the  little  scraps  and  scrids 
they  jest  chucked  in  the  stove.  Marcia  said 


jo      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

they  might 's  well  look  in  both — button 
wouldn't  burn  up,  if  rag's  did.  And  first 
they  looked  in  the  rag-bag,  and  then  they 
overhauled  that  stove,  and  carted  every  last 
dud  out  of  it;  and  whilst  they  were  looking, 
the  hired  girl  gave  a  screech,  and  Mrs. 
Keith  looks  in — she  mistrusted  it  was  a 
mouse,  and  you  know  she  ain't  'fraid  of 
nothing  —  and  she  pulled  it  out  —  Miss 
Pennell's  diamond  pin!" 

"Oh,  Lord  have  mercy!"  said  Mrs. 
Swift. 

"Yes,  there  'twas,  good  Js  ever,  jest 
smouched  a  little.  Mrs.  Keith  says  it  all 
come  to  her  in  a  flash.  That  was  the  room 
they  was  packing  in,  you  know.  There 
was  a  lot  of  papers  and  stuff  on  the  floor, 
and,  soon  's  she  put  the  things  in  the  bag, 
she  told  the  girl  to  clear  up;  and  she  put 
the  papers  in  the  stove,  and  that  pin  must 
have  been  in  them." 

"  Hadn't  they  looked  in  the  stove?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  guess  they  had;  but  it  was 
kinder  slipped  down  in  a  corner,  and  I 
guess  they  didn't  poke  round  much.  You 
see,  Miss  Pennell  was  so  swearing  certain 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     71 

she  put  the  pin  in  the  case.  It  's  jest  an- 
other case  like  Sister  Pratt 's  jell  You 
cayn't  be  sure  of  nothing-  ?cept  original  sin, 
I  say.  Mrs.  Keith,  she  feels  real  upset 
about  you  and  how  folks  have  mis  judged 
you.  She  was  for  hiring  a  livery  and  com- 
ing right  out  to  see  you.  She  didn't  seem 
to  think  of  the  expense  at  all.  But  Marcia 
—  Marcia 's  got  real  good  sense,  Hannah !  " 

"I  know  it,"  said  Hannah,  meekly. 

" Marcia,  she  says:  *I  wouldn't,  Mrs. 
Keith;  I  wouldn't  never  name  it  to  her, 
since  you  never  have.  I  'd  go  and  talk  to 
Mrs.  Dagget,'  says  Marcia.  And  that  's 
jest  what  she  did;  and  I  made  the  boy 
hitch  right  up,  and  told  Lucy  Dagget  to 
give  her  pa  what  she  could  git  for  dinner, 
and  I  come  here  fast 's  I  could.  Mrs.  Keith 
wants  you  to  know  how  she  feels.  She 
does  feel  real  bad  —  why,  she  couldn't  have 
got  a  livery  for  less  'n  two  dollars,  and  she 
would  have  come  right  off  if  Marcia  hadn't 
stopped  her.  She  says  she  don't  blame  you 
much  if  you  cayn't  forgive  her " 

"But  I  do  —  I  do  from  my  heart,"  cried 
Hannah;  "and  I  thank  Marcia  and  you. 


72      The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift. 

And  oh,  Ellen,  if  I  didn't  need  never  to  hear 
a  word  more  about  it  again !  " 

"  Bless  your  poor  heart,  you  never  shall ! " 
said  Mrs.  Dagget,  wiping  her  eyes. 

Flowering  Bridge  agrees  that  Mrs. 
Swift's  conduct  in  burying  malice  is  admir- 
able. Everybody  felt  a  little  ashamed  at 
the  outcome  of  the  scandal,  and  everybody 
was  inclined  to  under-estimate  his  own  dis- 
trust. Of  course,  Sister  Swift  would  not  at 
her  age  begin  to  purloin  diamond  pins !  No 
one  had  really  supposed  such  a  thing.  But 
Al  certainly  was  puzzled  at  the  sudden  flood 
of  compliments  that  he  received  for  his 
mother  —  whose  gifts  and  good  qualities, 
from  her  eyesight  to  her  generosity,  had 
honorable  mention  —  and  at  the  extent  of 
neighborly  good-will  taking  the  form  of 
preserves.  However,  he  was  too  happy 
and  too  grateful  to  his  mother,  at  this  time, 
to  find  any  appreciation  of  her  extravagant. 

Hannah  herself  had  mighty  wrestlings  of 
conscience. 

"Marshy,  air  you  sure  there  wan't  no 
lies  told?  "  was  her  first  question  when  the 
two  met  again. 


The  Judgment  on  Mrs.  Swift.     73 

"Not  a  lie,"  replied  Marcia,  cheerfully. 

"But,  Marshy,  you  had  to  say  something-, 
the  time  they  found  it;  what  did  you  say, 
Marshy?" 

"  Oh,  I  said :  *  Gracious  goodness ! '  " 

Possibly  Marcia's  conscience  is  rather 
Western  than  the  undiluted  inheritance 
of  the  Puritans,  for  it  has  given  her  no 
twinges ;  only,  sometime,  she  hopes  Mother 
Swift  will  consent  to  her  telling  Al. 

Mrs.  Swift  walks  less  firmly  now,  over 
her  neighbors'  faults;  she  is  less  caustic  in 
her  speech,  and  slower  to  wrath,  than  of 
yore ;  she  has  even  asked  the  pastor's  family 
to  tea. 

"Tribberlation,"  says  Brother  Given, 
"  has  brought  forth  grace  I" 


The  Dilemma 
of  Sir  Guy  the  Neuter 


The  Dilemma 
of  Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.* 

$ 

I  had  not  loved  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. — Richard  Lovelace. 

THERE  are  two  portraits  remaining-  of 
Sir  Guy  Paget,  later  Baron  Ellesmere. 
One  of  them  hangs  in  the  old  hall  to  which 
his  descendants  have  spared  its  Elizabethan 
state.  No  one  can  name  the  painter ;  prob- 
ably he  was  one  of  the  Dutch  artists  who 
were  attracted  to  England  by  Holbein's 
success. 

The  paint  has  cracked  in  minute  and 
irregular  diamonds  all  over  the  canvas ;  and 
behind  this  network  of  the  old  spider,  Time, 
you  see  Sir  Guy's  face  and  his  supple  and 
elegant  figure,  down  past  the  half  of  his 
comely  legs.  He  is  in  court  dress,  as  he 

*  The  bishop  in  this  story  was  a  most  real  and  manful 
man,  to  whose  memory  I  offer  this  slight  tribute.  His  story 
may  be  found  in  any  history  of  England. 

77 


78  The  Dilemma  of 

was  wont  to  appear  before  her  majesty, 
Mary  I  of  England:  cloth  of  silver  and 
white  taffeta,  jewels  sparkling*  from  his 
sword  hilt,  and  a  "marten  chain  "wound 
about  his  square  white  velvet  cap. 

I  judge  that,  at  this  time,  he  may  have 
owned  twenty-eight  or  nine  years.  He  has 
the  dark  hair  of  the  Pagets  (fine  and 
straight,  I  discover  elsewhere)  brushed  up- 
ward in  the  fashion  of  the  day.  His  slight 
beard  hardly  disguises  the  beautiful  oval  of 
his  face.  His  tawny  gray  eyes,  though  not 
large,  are  full  of  fire.  The  nose  is  the 
rather  long,  well  formed  nose  of  Holbein's 
portraits ;  the  chin  is  firm ;  and  the  delicate 
lips  are  relaxed  by  a  fine,  half-melancholy, 
half-satiric  smile. 

The  other  portrait,  a  miniature  by  Hil- 
liard,  taken  in  Elizabeth's  reign,  shows  the 
same  graceful  beauty,  not  effeminate,  yet 
certainly  not  robust,  and  the  same  smile, 
which  I  am  quite  unable  to  describe.  In 
the  miniature,  Lord  Ellesmere  wears  ar- 
mor, being  thus  represented  at  the  instance 
of  his  wife,  whom  he  tenderly  loved  and 
who  was  proud  of  his  martial  exploits.  He 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  79 

was,  indeed,  a  valiant  and  fortunate  com- 
mander ;  but  it  was  at  the  court,  not  in  the 
field,  that  he  mended  the  estate  of  a  poor 
gentleman  into  that  of  a  great  lord ;  and  it 
is  the  courtier  who  smiles  that  haunting 
and  elusive  smile. 

Perhaps  I  am  reading-  my  own  meanings 
into  this  dead  courtier's  face,  or  taking 
them,  modernized  in  spite  of  myself,  from 
the  manuscript  story  which  he  left  to  his 
grandson.  He  left  other  records  of  strang-e 
passages  in  his  life,  some  of  them  concern- 
ing- very  great  personages,  indeed;  possi- 
bly it  is  for  that  reason  they  have  been  de- 
stroyed. Tradition  also  accuses  him  of 
"diuers  Sonets  the  wich  were  extream  com- 
mended of  Master  Philip  Sidney."  But 
they  have  gone  their  way  to  oblivion,  all  the 
same.  I  know  of  no  line  of  Guy  Paget's 
extant  outside  these  musty  old  pages,  the 
narrative  of  a  tragic  and  bewildering  epi- 
sode. 

Next  to  his  celebrated  uncle,  the  man 
who  most  influenced  Guy's  life  was  an  al- 
most forgotten  hero,  Robert  Ferrars, 


So  The  Dilemma  of 

Bishop  of  St.  Davids.  His  first  meeting 
with  Ferrars  was  in  this  wise : 

During-  the  autumn  of  1549,  Edward  VI, 
then  being-  on  the  throne,  and  the  Catholic 
rebellion  just  happily  suppressed,  Master 
Pag-et  rode  throug-h  Devonshire  with  dis- 
patches from  his  uncle  to  the  Bishop  of  St. 
Davids.  The  bishop  and  his  wife  had  g-one 
to  Devonshire  to  visit  Sir  Peter  Carew,  the 
bishop's  brother-in-law,  and  afterward  con- 
voy his  daug-hter,  Lady  Godsalve,  with 
them  to  Wales,  because  of  the  prospective 
absence  of  her  father  and  husband  in  Italy 
on  a  diplomatic  mission.  Guy  was  to  meet 
the  bishop  in  a  little  Devonshire  village. 
The  sun  was  passing-  into  the  west  as  he 
came  in  sig-ht  of  the  villag-e.  He  rode  un- 
attended, for  his  business  was  private. 
" Though  of  young  years,"  says  another 
chronicler,  "Master  Paget  was  greatly 
esteemed  and  trusted  by  his  uncle,  and 
much  employed  by  him  in  secret  affairs  of 
state." 

The  mire  of  the  foul  ways  had  splashed 
Guy's  riding  boots,  as  well  as  the  cloak  of 
fine  Flemish  cloth  which  he  wore  to  pro- 


Sir  Guy  the  Keuter.  81 

tect  his  doublet  of  "wanchett  blue  velvet 
guarded  with  silver."  Yet  for  all  the  travel 
stains,  he  must  have  looked  a  gallant  and 
handsome  young-  gentleman.  Not  a  very 
light  hearted  one  at  this  moment,  however, 
though  he  expected,  presently,  to  see  his 
sweetheart.  He  gazed  about  him  with  a 
bitter  smile.  The  sunshine  bathed  the 
moist  green  meadows  where  the  sheep  were 
grazing.  Kingcups  and  cuckoo  blossoms 
and  all  the  dazzling  ranks  of  the  autumn 
flowers  were  freshly  sprung  along  the  road- 
side or  waving  above  the  hedgerows;  and 
sloes  showed  their  sleek  black  sides  on  the 
blackthorn  bushes.  A  little  brook  flashed 
across  the  open  before  it  dipped  into  the 
shade  of  wooded  banks.  You  could  see, 
from  Guy's  point  of  vision,  orchards  and 
groves,  and  single  majestic  oaks  or  horse- 
chestnuts  dappling  the  plain  with  rich  sha- 
dow; and  harvests  waving  their  dull  gold; 
and  hills  to  break  the  soft  curves  of  the 
landscape  on  the  horizon  line.  Directly  be- 
fore him  the  highway  slipped  out  of  sight 
among  the  steep  roofs  of  the  village. 

The  scene  was  one  of  just  such  gentle 


82  The  Dilemma  of 

and  pensive  loveliness  as  English  poets,  in 
all  ages,  have  delighted  to  praise,  but  now 
it  was  a  loveliness  disheveled  and  woeful. 
The  ruined  harvests  were  tumbled  over 
their  fields.  Ragged  gaps  had  been  slashed 
in  the  hedges ;  deep  furrows  were  plowed 
in  the  greensward ;  how,  was  easy  to  know 
from  the  broken  cannon  wheels,  the  bleach- 
ing bones  of  horses,  rusted  pieces  of  weap- 
ons and  armor,  and  all  the  hideous  litter  of 
warfare  still  cumbering  the  ground.  Along, 
transverse  ridge  of  raw  earth  marked  the 
common  grave  of  king's  men  and  rebels.  In 
like  wise  the  black  heaps  of  ashes  and 
charred  timbers,  here  and  there,  meant 
that  the  soldiers  had  burned  the  cottages. 
So  near  Guy  that  his  horse's  nostrils  di- 
lated with  the  smoke,  a  few  rafters  were 
still  smoldering.  They  had  taken  the  way- 
side cross  out  of  its  socket,  hacked  it  into 
the  semblance  of  a  gallows,  and  swung  from 
it  a  man  in  a  tattered  frieze  frock.  His 
clouted  soles  were  barely  a  foot  from  the 
embers. 

Guy  frowned  and  rode  away.     The  main 
street  of  the  village  was  blocked  halfway 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  83 

by  an  ancient  Norman  church.  Here,  again, 
Guy  saw  signs  of  that  furious  time.  The 
lead  was  peeled  from  the  roof,  and  the 
tower  stripped  of  its  bells.  Zealots  had 
smashed  the  noble  windows,  leaving-  only 
jagged  points  like  red  and  blue  flames  to 
cling  to  the  cusps  and  mullions.  Within, 
the  choir,  bare  of  all  that  the  piety  of  ages 
had  bestowed,  altars,  ornaments,  crucifixes, 
images,  held  only  an  oaken  communion 
table;  and  the  walls  had  been  "white 
limned  "  so  roughly  that  the  floor  and  even 
the  table  were  bespattered.  Through  the 
trefoil  above  the  group  of  lancet  windows 
on  the  north  side  of  the  tower,  fronting  the 
street,  a  great  beam  was  run,  from  which 
dangled  a  rope,  its  purpose  plainly  indicated 
by  the  loop  and  swinging  end. 

A  crowd  of  half -grown  lads  craned  their 
necks  at  the  noose ;  and  a  half-score  men-at- 
arms  made  "scurril  jests." 

Guy  kept  his  way  on  down  the  street.  It 
was  a  narrow  street,  unpaved,  drained  by 
open  gutters.  The  houses  abutted  on  it  di- 
rectly. Most  of  them  were  of  timber  and 
plaster,  two  stories  high,  divided  by  a  pro- 


84  The  Dilemma  of 

jecting  string-course.  The  booths  of  the 
tradesmen  were  below,  their  dwelling's  were 
above.  Evidently  the  town  was  astir  in 
some  unwonted  fashion,  for  heads  crowded 
the  windows  and  doorways,  and  little  groups 
of  citizens,  with  troubled  faces,  talked  to- 
g-ether at  the  street  corners.  Guy  easily 
distinguished  the  inn  by  its  sign  of  the 
gilded  swan.  It  was  a  timber  house  of 
some  architectural  pretensions,  built  about 
a  quadrangle.  The  fa§ade  had  the  lawless 
picturesqueness  of  the  epoch,  with  its 
Gothic  gables,  its  large,  deeply  recessed 
windows,  shapen  with  the  Tudor  arch,  and 
divided  into  many  lights,  its  carven  drip- 
stones and  cornices,  and  its  porch  and 
porch  chamber  supported  on  Ionic  pillars. 
The  porch  seats  were  filled  with  the  village 
magnates,  and  the  tapster  in  his  leather 
apron  and  crumpled  white  hose  was  serving 
them  to  great  stoups  of  beer. 

No  landlord  was  to  be  seen  (Guy  learned 
afterward  that  he  was  a  timorous  man  who 
shunned  the  wagging  of  tongues),  but  his 
wife  displayed  a  new  violet  kirtle  and  her 
black  eyes  and  red  cheeks  in  the  doorway. 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  85 

She,  alone,  was  unabashed  by  Guy's  ap- 
proach ;  she  greeted  him  courteously,  and 
having-  rendered  his  horse  to  the  hostler 
and  bade  the  tapster  fetch  a  fresh  tankard, 
she  continued  her  speech.  "Marry,"  she 
cried,  "though  they  do  hang-  him,  I  say  he 
was  a  kind  man ;  many  a  dirge  and  placebo 
hath  he  said  for  a  poor  body,  nor  axed  for 
the  dirge  groat.  And  which  o'  the  new 
priests  would  ha'  tarried  like  him  i'  the 
plague  time?" 

"He  feared  naught" — it  was  a  red-faced 
yeoman  who  took  up  the  word.  "Lord,  how 
stout  he  did  crack  at  the  usurers  and  sheep 
mongers,  and  the  forestallers  and  regra- 
tors!" 

There  was  a  cautious  acquiescence  in 
nods,  with  side  glances  at  Guy. 

A  young  man  would  have  told  of  the 
equally  notable  drubbing  administered  to 
these  hated  personages  by  Master  Latimer, 
the  king's  preacher;  but  it  was  clear  that 
young  Dobson  was  suspected  of  making  his 
travels  too  conspicuous;  they,  his  elders 
and  betters,  were  never  in  London;  his  own 
father  checked  him : 


86  The  Dilemma  of 

"Aye,  aye,  lad,  'twas  famous  fine,  nodoubt, 
but  good  Sir  Giles  was  broad  spoken  enow 
for  me." 

"By  likelihood,  he  was  too  broad  spoken," 
said  a  burgher,  "  'tis  claimed  he  practiced 
with  the  headiness  of  the  multitude;  and 
sure  he  said  the  mass  the  old  way." 

"Well,  they  ha'  swept  us  g-ood  clean  of 
the  mass,  now,  "the  tapster  r  e  j  oined,  grimly, 
"and  ta'en  the  roods  down,  too.  Poor  Hobb 
be  hang-ing-  to  one  now." 

The  citizens  exchang-ed  black  looks. 

"They  will  sweep  the  land  g-ood  clean  of 
religion,"  cried  an  old  man  in  a  threadbare 
sarcenet  gown.  "The  nobles  be  jeerers 
and  mockers,  riotous  and  bloody  and  evil 
livers,  the  young  men  be  neuters,  of  no 
faith.  They  fear  neither  God  nor  the  devil. 
The  merchants  have  the  Gospel  swimming 
on  their  lips;  but,  Lord,  how  they  oppress 
the  poor!  They  keep  their  wool  and  their 
cloth  till  it  be  beyond  a  poor  man's  buying ; 
and  it  weareth  no  time,  for  the  naughtiness 
of  the  making.  Rich  men  will  show  no 
compassion  to  the  poor.  I  say  there  was 
never  a  time  when  the  rich  were  so  cruel  to 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  87 

the  poor.  All  kinds  of  bestial  be  so  high  a 
poor  man  cannot  live.  When  I  was  a  young 
man,  eggs  were  a  penny  a  dozen,  and  'twas 
a  penny  a  pound  for  beef  or  mutton  or  veal, 
and  white  meat  a  penny  farthing,  and  neck 
or  legs  two  farthings.  But  now  the  new 
lords  and  the  clerking  knights  have  en- 
closed the  commons  so  a  poor  man  cannot 
keep  a  cow  or  pig  for  the  comfort  of  it." 

"  Yea,  and  how  the  rents  be  raised !"  said 
the  yeoman. 

"Wot  ye,  good  people,"  said  a  portly 
mercer,  "how  this  our  native  country  be 
sore  decayed,  so  'tis  to  be  feared  we  may 
fall  a  prey  to  our  enemies  for  lack  of  men? 
Everywhere  be  the  people  sore  minished. 
Where,  in  a  few  years  agone,  were  ten  or 
twelve  hundred,  be  scarce  four  hundred 
now,  and  where  did  use  to  be  fifty  plows 
and  good  houses  of  husbandry,  now  will  be 
but  a  shepherd  and  his  dog.  And  the  hus- 
bandmen be  so  pined  and  famished  they  be 
fain  to  eat  acorns,  they  say." 

"Yea,"  young  Dobson  interrupted,  ea- 
gerly, "  'sheep  and  cattle  that  be  ordained 
to  be  eaten  of  men  have  devoured  the  men,' 


88  The  Dilemma  of 

quoth  Master  Latimer ;  and  worthy  Master 

Be$on  in  his  book,  the  *  Jewel  of  Joy' "  • 

But  the  crowd  would  have  nothing-  of 
young-  Dobsonor  his  new  lights.  The  land- 
lady sent  a  bell-like  Devonshire  voice  above 
the  din  of  criticism.  "Nay,  go  to,  lad,  I  per- 
ceive, as  the  saying-  is,  a  blind  man  doth 
swallow  many  a  fly.  The  new  priests  talk 
of  charity,  but  it 's  from  the  teeth  forward. 
Yea,  we  have  a  hot  gospeler  here,  that  g-ot 
our  monk's  chantry  lands.  Ye  wot  well  how 
that  the  monks  were  g-ood  landlords.  But 
this  new  lord  hath  enclosed  the  commons 
and  so  raised  his  rents  and  pulled  and  polled 
his  tenants  that  a  meanie  of  them  have  lost 
their  farms  and  must  beg-  on  the  roads  or 
fall  to  picking-  and  stealing.  There  was  one 
poor  simple  man — I  knew  him  well,  his  name 
was  Jock  Tibbets — he  came  to  my  yard  and 
died  there  of  a  fever,  and  his  wife,  why  I 
know  not,  she  died  also,  so  the  two  sons  and 
one  daughter  they  did  beg  on  the  roads. 
One  of  the  sons  was  pressed  to  fight  with 
the  king's  men,  and  was  killed ;  and  the  girl, 
being  but  simple  withal  and  miserably  han- 
dled by  the  soldiers,  she  was  haired  out  of 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  89 

her  wits  and  drowned  herself  in  the  brook; 
I  saw  her  on  the  banks  stark  of  her  limbs, 
and  dripping-,  and  her  other  brother  making- 
moan  over  her." 

uYes,"  said  the  tapster,  "Martin  his 
name  is,  and  by  the  rood,  Lord  William  be 
going  to  hang-  him  to-day,  with  our  vicar." 

"  And  how  chance  they  hang-  him,  sirrah?" 
a  voice  demanded  from  within. 

Guy  had  the  curiosity  to  draw  nearer 
and  look  into  the  inn  parlor.  Two  persons 
were  in  the  room.  One  was  the  speaker, 
an  elderly  man,  tall  and  stalwart  of  figure, 
composed  and  benignant  of  face.  His  gray 
hair  was  stiff  and  abundant.  His  features 
were  large  and  rather  clumsily  molded, 
but  the  eyes  were  " marvelous  bright," 
and  wrinkles  of  kindly  mirth  discovered 
themselves  at  the  corners  of  his  eyelids 
and  his  mouth.  His  attire  was  "  grave  and 
reverend  "  but  plain,  ua  fair  black  gown" 
and  "black  hose  with  ruffled  plates  of  the 
same  cloth."  Instead  of  the  cap  of  the 
period,  he  held  a  broad  hat  in  his  strong, 
white  hand. 


90  The  Dilemma  of 

"By  the  faith  of  my  body,  'tis  the  bishop, " 
said  Guy. 

The  other  person  in  the  room  was  a 
young-  gentlewoman,  richly  appareled,  of 
whose  person  the  dim  light  only  revealed 
that  she  had  a  pale  face  and  dark  red  hair. 
But  Guy  did  not  need  to  see  her  plainly ;  he 
had  been  fitting  grand  adjectives  to  that 
auburn  hair  for  months.  Not  much  more 
than  two  years  before,  Sir  William  Paget 
had  selected  Mistress  Margaret  Carew  for 
his  nephew's  wife.  There  was  umuch 
speech  of  the  matter."  The  young  people 
saw  each  other.  Mistress  Margaret,  a  shy 
girl,  mourning  the  death  of  her  mother,  did 
not  so  much  as  lift  her  eyes  at  the  graceful 
young  cavalier,  and  blushed  painfully  at  his 
court  flatteries.  Guy  was  well  enough  satis- 
fied; he  told  his  uncle  that  the  lady  was  fair 
and  that  he  would  warrant  her  "  infinitely 
virtuous."  "  As  for  her  wit,"  quoth  he,  "I 
could  wish  it  some  growth,  but  there  be 
time  enow." 

Nevertheless  the  affair  "came  to  naught." 
I  gather  that  there  was  some  dispute  about 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  91 

"the  dowry."  Shortly  after,  Mistress  Mar- 
garet married  Sir  John  Godsalve. 

Cotemporary  gossip  pictures  Sir  John  as 
old,  rich  and  ugly,  a  brave  soldier  and  an 
honest  if  stormy  tempered  gentleman. 

Guy  took  the  rupture  of  his  betrothal 
with  equanimity ;  but  when,  after  her  mar- 
riage, Lady  Godsalve  appeared  at  court, 
whether  because  she  were  really  grown 
more  fascinating  or  because  her  charms 
had  acquired  the  luster  of  the  unattainable, 
certain  it  is  Master  Paget  chose  to  fancy 
himself  the  victim  of  a  hopeless  passion. 
This  was  the  period  of  his  sonnets  to 
Amoret. 

Amoret  was  cold.  She  did  not  blush  any 
for  his  compliments,  and  the  wit,  to  which 
he  had  wished  growth,  was  quite  vigorous 
enough  to  match  Master  Guy's,  now.  He 
professed  himself  dying  of  despair,  but  I 
imagine  that,  at  this  period,  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  poetic  license  about  his  de- 
spair. At  any  rate,  he  consoled  himself 
with  kinder  beauties.  Guy  was  a  man  of 
his  time,  and  it  was  not  the  time  of  Sir 
Galahad.  Yet  as  he  saw  that  averted 


92  The  Dilemma  of 

pale  cheek  and  the  lovely  curve  of  the 
throat  into  the  cheek,  he  felt  a  thrill  be- 
yond his  lig-ht  admiration.  "Dear  child," 
he  murmured,  "Lord,  what  an  innocent 
face  it  is!"  All  this  was  in  the  space  of 
the  tapster's  gruff  answer :  "  Why,  please 
your  lordship,  Lord  William  willed  Martin 
to  hang-  our  vicar,  and  he  would  not  —  so 
they  are  going-  to  hang-  him  —  lo,  there  they 
come! " 

A  clatter  of  armor,  a  jingle  of  spurs,  a 
thud  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  rush  of  many 
feet,  boys'  feet,  men's  feet,  women's  feet, 
little  children's  feet,  a  troop  of  men-of-arms 
riding1  at  a  slow  pace,  and,  in  the  middle 
rank,  two  men  on  horseback,  arms  tied 
behind  their  backs,  feet  lashed  under  their 
horses  —  yes,  they  were  coming-. 

The  priest's  spine  was  as  erect  as  any 
soldier's,  thoug-h  his  robe  bunched  ungrace- 
fully over  the  saddle  pommel,  and  they  had 
tied  a  bucket  of  holy  water,  a  rosary  and  a 
sacring-  bell  round  his  neck,  to  splash  and 
clank  at  every  motion.  He  was  a  little 
round  man  with  a  bald  head  which  glistened 
in  the  sun.  He  looked  steadily  at  the  tower 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  93 

and  the  beam,  but  he  did  not  flinch  by  as 
much  as  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid;  even  his 
full  cheeks  kept  their  ruddy  hue.  The 
other  prisoner  was  an  athletic  young-  man 
who  would  have  been  handsome  but  for  the 
yellowish  pallor  of  his  skin  and  the  glassy 
eyes  which  roamed  from  side  to  side.  His 
curly  flaxen  hair  was  matted  with  blood, 
and  his  ragged  fustian  jacket  nearly  torn 
off  him. 

As  the  dismal  procession  moved  up  the 
street  an  inarticulate  and  awful  murmur 
swelled  from  the  crowd,  that  under-throb 
of  rage  and  grief  and  straining  patience 
that  holds  the  menace  of  unchecked  fury, 
and  heard  from  an  English  mob  has  rarely 
failed  to  keep  its  promise.  "Some  day," 
thought  the  keen  young  interpreter  who 
watched  it  all,  "  some  day  it  will  be  the  new 
priests'  turn  —  ha,  what  meaneth  my  lord 
bishop?" 

The  bishop  had  stepped  into  the  street. 
He  stood  there,  lifting  his  arms 

"  My  lord,  in  the  king's  name !  " 

The  leader  of  the  troop  was  a  mere 
stripling  well  known  to  Guy,  a  duke's  son. 


94  The  Dilemma  of 

He  turned  impatiently  in  his  saddle,  say- 
ing-: "My  lord,  ye  be  letting1  the  king's 
justice." 

"Nay,  not  so,"  said  the  bishop,  "sure, 
'tis  against  the  king's  justice  and  natural 
pity,  too,  to  hang-  this  fond  young-  man  for 
that  he  will  not  hang-  the  other." 

Lord  William  answered,  in  a  tone  of  im- 
patient raillery,  that  the  knave  would  hang 
the  priest  fast  enough  when  the  pinch  came. 

"That  will  I  never,"  said  the  prisoner, 
sullenly. 

The  priest  managed  to  turn  his  bound 
body  toward  the  bishop.  "  For  the  passion 
of  Christ,  good  gentlemen,"  he  pleaded, 
"be  a  mean  for  this  poor  lad.  'Tis  no 
rebel,  but  a  poor  miser  that  beggeth  on  the 
road." 

"  That  will  I,  sir,"  said  the  bishop,  heart- 
ily, "but  for  yourself " 

" For  me,"  said  the  priest,  "pity  me  not. 
I  have  lived  good  days,  and  I  am  found 
worthy  to  die  in  God's  cause." 

Guy  had  been  whispering  in  Lord  Will- 
iam's ear,  regarding  the  Protector's  lenity 
toward  the  rebels.  "He?  He  may  want 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  95 

the  like  himself,"  said  Lord  William;  but 
then  he  laughed  and  bade  two  of  his  soldiers 
"have  the  knave  away." 

"For  the  priest,"  he  added,  "I  have  no 
option." 

The  bishop  thanked  him  for  his  "  gentle- 
ness "  and  stepped  aside.  Lord  William 
gave  the  word  of  advance.  The  troop 
moved  on  up  the  street,  impassive  as  their 
armor.  The  people  streamed  after  them, 
and,  directly,  Guy  and  the  bishop  saw  the 
stout  figure  swinging  before  his  own  church 
tower.  Lady  Godsalve  had  gone.  They 
stood  alone  together. 

"God  have  pity  on  his  soul!"  said  the 
bishop,  solemnly;  "he  was  a  very  pestilent 
traitor,  well  worthy  of  death,  but  he  was  a 
brave  man." 

Guy  masked  a  pity  that  hurt  him,  under 
a  careless  answer:  "Yea,  he  had  a  stout 
and  arrogant  stomach.  He  minded  me  of 
Forrest  that  was  burned  in  the  late  king's 
time,  ye  know.  I  saw  him  suffer.  You  of 
the  clergy  have  a  special  gift  for  torment, 
methinks.  They  burned  him  in  a  cradle  of 
chains.  Master  Latimer  preached,  and  at 


96  The  Dilemma  of 

such  length  I  trow  Forrest  was  glad  to  be 
out  of  the  sermon  and  into  the  fire.  But, 
an  he  were  not  a  traitor,  I  would  say  For- 
rest took  his  death  as  Christian-like  as  any 
man  I  ever  did  see.  I  was  a  lad,  at  the 
time.  I  wept  to  see  the  man,  screaming  in 
the  fire,  and  climbing  up,  clinging  to  the 
chains,  swaying  his  body  out  of  the  flames. 
Marry,  I  did  run  away." 

The  bishop  sighed:  "It  liketh  me  not 
these  harsh  punishments,  but  they  affright 
evil  doers.  Better  is  it  one  traitor  die 
dreadfully  like  Forrest  than  hundreds  in 
battle  or  —  like  such  an  one.  But,  Master 
Paget,  ye  have  letters  for  me,  I  wis ;  let  us 
to  the  green  fields  where  we  may  read  them 
in  good  quiet." 

Guy  willingly  "did  his  bidding."  They 
sat  down  together  by  the  brookside  and 
the  bishop  looked  over  the  letters.  They 
related  to  various  abuses  in  the  diocese, 
and  especially  to  certain  complaints  pri- 
vately made  against  the  bishop.  Their 
tenor  appeared  in  the  bishop's  running 
comment:  "Griflith  ap  Morgan  be  an  un- 
meet man  for  promotion;  he  stole  his  own 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  97 

church  bells.  Canon  Hugh  Evans  com- 
plaineth  of  the  multitude  of  valyaunt  beg- 
gars and  sturdy  vagabonds  in  his  parish. 
The  justice  hath  whipped  and  branded  to 
no  end;  he  would  have  two  hanged  as  an 
ensample.  Not  an  I  can  hinder  it.  Let 
him  advise  Sir  Thomas  Jones  to  open  his 
mines;  the  poor  lobs  be  willing  enow  to 
work  so  work  be  had.  John  Hughes !  Nay, 
she  was  not  his  wife.  I  will  not  take  bribes 
to  bear  with  his  wrong  doing ;  let  him  com- 
plain. Ha!  this  be  all  false!  It  was  not  I, 
but  George  Constantine  of  his  own  pre- 
sumptuous mind  removed  the  communion 
altar  in  Caermarthen  Church.  Yea,  it  be 
very  vile  and  in  great  decay.  For  why, 
the  canons  have  spoiled  it  of  crosses,  cen- 
sers, chalices  with  other  plate  and  jewels 
to  the  value  of  five  hundred  marks.  Your 
uncle  hath  the  papers.  I  did  take  order  to 
compel  restitution.  But  they  have  bolster- 
ers.  I  do  perceive  they  make  charges 
against  me.  Saw  ye  ever  such  frivole  rea- 
soning?" He  smiled,  although  plainly  dis- 
tressed. "  Here  be  a  famous  hotchpotch : 
Pemunire  and  using  my  clergy  tyran- 


98  The  Dilemma  of 

nously,  and  wearing1  a  hat — verily,  there  I 
must  plead  guilty,  sith  the  proof  be  on  me. 
It  beareth  off  the  cold  in  winter  and  the 
heat  in  summer,  yet  from  the  coil  ye  would 
deem  a  hat  partook  of  the  nature  of  mortal 
sin.  Likewise  I  have  had  two  godmothers 
for  my  son,  *  making  of  his  son  a  monster,' 
quoth  they,  'and  him  a  laughing  stock.' 
Well,  Master  Paget,  there  were  two  wives 
being  before  at  variance  who  desired  both 
to  be  godmothers,  so  to  make  unity  between 
them  they  were  both  received.  What !  com- 
plain they  too  that  I  whistle  my  child,  say- 
ing that  he  understood  my  whistle  when  he 
was  three  days  old,  and  so  whistle  him, 
daily,  friendly  admonition  neglected  — 
friendly  forsooth!  But  His  true  I  do  use 
with  gravity  all  honest  loving  entertain- 
ment of  the  child  to  encourage  him,  there- 
after,'willingly  to  receive,  at  his  father's 
mouth,  wholesome  doctrine  of  the  true  fear 
and  love  of  God.  It  killeth  my  heart,  Master 
Paget,  to  see  how  cruelly  these  innocents, 
that  Christ  loved,  be  entreated  by  their 
parents  and  masters.  Marry,  though,  ye 
would  laugh  your  fill,  Master  Paget,  to  see 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  99 

Sam  nigh  leaping-  out  of  his  mother's  arms, 
hearing  of  my  whistle,  I  not  being  in  sight. 
The  towardness  of  the  babe,  the  nurse 
saith,  is  amazing  —  but  I  forget  my  canon's 
sore  grief."  He  read  with  a  mixture  of 
sadness,  vexation  and  humor  a  long  list  of 
charges  almost  incredible  to  the  modern 
mind.  The  bishop  did  not  forcibly  take 
away  the  people's  beads ;  he  permitted  them 
to  "kneel  and  knock"  to  the  sacrament. 
He  seditiously  wished,  "speaking  of  the 
alteration  of  the  coin,"  that  "the  penny 
should  be  in  weight  worth  a  penny  of  the 
same  metal."  He  dined  with  his  servants, 
and  his  talk  was  "not  of  godliness  but  of 
worldly  matters."  He  neglected  his  books 
and  preaching,  and  spent  his  time  opening 
mines,  surveying  lands,  and  attending  to 
fisheries.  When  he  reached  the  last  indict- 
ment the  bishop  wiped  his  brow.  "God 
forgive  me,  sir,"  said  he,  "belike  therein 
be  a  savor  of  truth.  I  be  so  occupied  with 
the  piteous  condition  for  this  world  of  my 
poor  people  and  the  seeking  out  some  re- 
mede  that  I  may  neglect  to  feed  my  sheep 
spiritually,  though  I  do  preach  regularly 


loo  The  Dilemma  of 

every  week.  But  Master  Paget,  enow  of 
this  gear;  ye  bear  your  worshipful  uncle's 
very  thought  of  the  matter;  pray  you  give 
it  me." 

During  the  bishop's  examination  of  the 
letters  Guy  had  been  watching  every 
phrase,  those  sharp,  worldly-wise  young 
ears  of  his  on  the  alert  for  some  ring 
of  the  base  metal  of  cruelty,  or  ambition,  or 
avarice,  or  sinister  indulgence,  which  he 
was  used  to  detect  in  the  "new  priests' 
talk." 

"Almost  thou  persuadest  me  thou  art  an 
honest  man,"  he  thought  before  he  answered 
courteously:  "That  will  I,  my  lord.  'Tis 
my  uncle's  belief  the  notary,  George  Con- 
stantine,  is  promoter  of  all  this  broil.  'Tis 
bruited  that  he  be  not  only  guilty  of  theft 
of  church  moneys  and  other  naughty  facts, 
but  he  has  had  a  hand  in  the  late  rising. 
Wherefore,  do  ye  inquire,  shrewdly,  and 
secretly  gather  what  proof  ye  may  —  it 
needs  not  much  —  and  hale  him  before  Sir 
Peter,  who  is  your  right  friend  and  brother 
—  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  him  and  his 
plottings  ! " 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  101 

ye,"  cried  the  bishop,  opening- his 
eyes  wide,  "mean  ye  that  I  have  him  hanged 
whether  or  no?" 

Guy  stroke  the  down  on  his  smiling  lip  as 
he  answered  gently  that  the  hanging  best 
be  left  to  the  secular  arm,  that  is,  Sir  Peter 
Carew. 

"God  forbid,"  said  the  bishop,  flushing, 
"that  I  take  any  man's  blood  on  my  soul ! 
I  thank  Sir  William  for  his  gentle  friend- 
ship, but  it  standeth  not  with  my  honor  or 
the  faith  of  a  Christian  man  thus  to  render 
evil  for  evil." 

"  Verily,  'tis  an  honest  man,"  was  Guy's 
inward  comment;  outwardly  he  said  that 
his  own  duty  ended  with  the  delivery  of  his 
message.  "And  so  the  bishop  put  the 
papers  in  his  poke  and  they  fared  back  to 
the  'ostle." 

Will,  the  tapster,  met  them  with  a  grin 
and  the  intelligence:  "Martin,  him  your 
worships  wot  of"  —  he  griped  his  throat 
significantly — "he  hath  led  the  soldiers 
into  a  ditch  and  is  off." 

"Another  knave  to  pillage  the  king's 
lieges,"  said  Guy,  tossing  the  fellow  a  cru- 


IO2  The  Dilemma  of 

sado  and  secretly  rather  glad.     He   sus- 
pected that  the  bishop  shared  his  feeling. 

The  evening  was  spent  in  the  parlor  of 
the  inn.  Mistress  Ferrars  was  present,  a 
tall,  slender  gentlewoman,  neither  young 
nor  pretty,  yet  attracting  by  a  mild  and  un- 
exacting  comeliness  and  an  evident  sweet- 
ness of  nature. 

Lord  William  contributed  his  handsome 
person  and  his  sackbut,  "playing  divers 
French  songs  most  untunefully  "  —  but  this 
is  Guy's  judgment,  and  he  wanted  to  en- 
gross Lady  God  salve's  attention  himself. 
He  was  too  courtly  a  youth  to  display  his 
chagrin;  he  rather  made  extra  efforts  to 
please  the  whole  company.  He  discoursed 
on  the  doings  of  the  court,  the  dress  of  the 
ladies  at  the  last  masque ;  the  new  salad  just 
come  from  France ;  the  beauty,  talents  and 
marvelous  virtues  of  the  young  prince 
(whereat  the  bishop's  eyes  grew  moist  and 
he  nodded  his  head  "  many  times  in  a  vehe- 
ment manner,"  and  was  heard  to  murmur 
something  in  his  wife's  ear  about  "our 
Sam");  the  fair  gardens  of  the  Duke  of 
Somerset ;  the  wonders  of  France,  Holland 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  103 

and  Italy,  which  countries  young-  Paget  had 
seen  with  his  uncle. 

The  simple  pair  delighted  in  this  talk. 
Ever  and  anon  the  bishop  would  turn  his 
beaming-  eyes  at  his  wife  and  they  would 
smile  in  unison  upon  Guy.  He  caug-ht  his 
breath  with  interest  over  the  foreig-n  mar- 
vels, and  laug-hed  a  great,  round,  unclerical 
laugh  at  every  jest.  Finally,  when  Guy 
sang  at  his  asking  (the  rascal  abused  his 
opportunity  and  adapted  some  of  his  own 
ravings  about  "  Amoret"  to  a  ufair  foreign 
melody  ")  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  openly,  ex- 
claiming: "  Tush,  I  had  not  thought  a  fond 
song  could  so  move  me.  Thou  must  teach 
it  me,  that  I  may  whistle  it  to  Sam." 

Guy  could  not  help  an  expansion  of  his 
heart  under  this  artless  admiration.  But 
when  the  conversation  touched  on  the  state 
of  the  commonwealth  he  was  impressed 
with  the  sturdier  side  of  Ferrars's  charac- 
ter. A  homely  acumen  edged  his  straight- 
forward sentences.  His  mind  had  a  breadth 
of  justice  and  mercy,  and  a  fanciful  imagi- 
nation as  well,  which  played  about  his  stern 
honesty  and  blunt  courage,  just  as  little 


104  The  Dilemma  of 

Sam  used  to  frolic  in  his  father's  arms  and 
rest  his  dainty  cheek  against  the  other's 
wrinkles. 

"Yea,  verily,  here  is  an  honest  man," 
said  Guy  to  himself. 

While  the  company  sate  about  the  room 
and  Lord  William  explained  the  last  cam- 
paign to  the  bishop,  and  Mistress  Ferrars 
was  counting  her  stitches  on  a  remarkable 
sampler,  he  made  an  occasion  to  go  to  Lady 
Godsalve,  to  examine  her  broidery  work, 
saying  (which  was  not  true)  that  it  minded 
him  of  a  piece  worked  by  the  Lady  Mary, 
the  king's  sister.  So  he  leaned  over  the  gable 
of  her  chair  and  his  fingers  slipped  along 
the  silken  pattern  until  they  touched  the 
slim  white  fingers  drawing  the  thread.  He 
audaciously  asked  her  how  she  liked  the 
song.  "  'Twas  writ  for  you,"  said  he. 

Lady  Godsalve  folded  her  hands  upon  her 
work.  "  Master  Paget,"  she  said,  * 'I  would 
fain  talk  with  you  in  good  sadness  if  I 
might." 

"Assuredly,  madam,"  Guy  answered, 
perplexed  by  her  calm  voice  and  the  steady 
gaze  of  her  eyes.  Then,  all  at  once,  he  saw 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  105 

that  her  hands  were  clasping- each  other  with 
the  tightness  of  resolution,  not  self-control. 
She  lifted  her  eyes.  They  were  long-  in 
shape,  and  not  until  she  lifted  them  did  one 
see  how  larg-e  they  were  or  how  deep  their 
violet  lig-hts.  Faint  shadows  lay  under  her 
smooth  eyelids.  Her  eyebrows,  darker 
than  her  hair,  were  drawn  a  little  tog-ether. 
The  small  mouth  curved  downward  the 
merest  trifle.  It  was  the  short  upper  lip, 
Guy  could  see,  that  g-ave  the  mouth  its 
haug-hty  expression ;  now,  the  lips  had  the 
pathetic  curves  of  the  mouth  of  a  tired 
child.  Surely  her  cheek  had  grown  thinner 
and  paler. 

Guy  recalled  the  girl  who  should  have 
been  his  wife  and  who  was  "infinitely  vir- 
tuous." He  was  touched.  All  the  artificial 
gallantry  slipped  from  his  manner ;  he 
stood  up  and  held  the  embroidery  in  both 
his  hands  as  if  to  examine  it. 

She  gave  him  the  first  grateful  look  that 
he  had  ever  seen  in  her  eyes.  "Master 
Paget,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly,  "brought 
ye  news  of  the  accusations  Constantine, 
the  notary,  hath  laid  against  the  bishop?  " 


ic6  The  Dilemma  of 

"Alack,  madam,  my  matters  be  private." 

"Nay,  it  needs  not  you  disclose  them," 
she  said,  with  rather  a  dreary  smile.  "I 
wot  'tis  true  withouten  your  speech.  Ah, 
Master  Pag-et,  be  his  g-ood  lord.  Intercede 
with  your  uncle.  He  be  not  a  clawback 
flatterer  like  his  besetters;  he  cannot  plead 
his  own  cause.  He  hath  done  so  much  in 
Wales  for  the  poor  people.  And  he  hath 
taken  order  with  the  misbehaving-  clergy ; 
therefore  they  do  hate  him,  and  practice  to 
destroy  him." 

"  He  hath  g-ood  hap  to  win  such  an  advo- 
cate," said  Guy,  smiling-  a  little. 

"He  hath  done  more  for  me,"  she  an- 
swered; "once  when  I  was  in  sore  trouble 
and  anguish  of  mind,  seeing-  no  helper,  he 
set  my  feet  in  the  straig-ht  road;  and  his 
counsel  was  like  the  ropes  they  do  throw  to 
poor  mariners  in  a  storm.  He  looketh  a 
kind,  simple  man  only,  but  oh,  he  doth 
know  the  depths  wherein  the  soul  be  like 
to  sink!" 

During-  her  words  the  young-  courtier's 
heart  was  beating-  in  an  unprecedented 
way.  Could  Margaret  Godsalve's  extremity 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  107 

concern  him?  That  still  damsel  who  scarce 
let  him  see  the  color  of  her  eyes,  had  she 
loved  him  in  secret  ?  Poor  heart,  to  have 
them  rudely  fling-  her  sweetness  at  that 
brutal  old  soldier !  Was  her  flouting-  of  him 
but  to  hide  her  hurt?  Guy  recalled  his 
sonnets.  He  was  smitten  with  the  sharp- 
est regret  that  he  had  ever  known ;  his 
seemed  to  him  an  unknig-htly  part,  and  he 
remembered  his  mother  and  her  tales  of 
knig-hts  who  loved  one  woman  and  clave  to 
her  and  served  her,  asking-  no  g-uerdon. 

"Marg-aret,"  said  he,  "forg-et  what  hath 
given  thee  pain  in  time  ag-one.  I  will  be 
thy  rig-ht  brother,  now.  Whatever  I  can  do, 
that  will  I ;  wherefore,  thou  knowest,  but 
shalt  never  hear  me  say." 

He  had  spoken  to  her  thoug-ht  rather 
than  her  words,  but  neither  of  them  con- 
sidered that  until  afterward.  She  was  any- 
thing- but  pale,  now;  she  turned  her  face  so 
that  he  mig-ht  not  see  the  blushes — so  like 
those  blushes  when  they  were  first  to- 
g-ether— her  sweet  voice  was  barely  above 
a  whisper:  "I  knew,  always,  thou  wast 
noble — as  noble  as  thou  art  brave!  " 


io8  The  Dilemma  of 

She  might  have  added  something- to  these 
intoxicating-  words ;  but  Lord  William  was 
moved  to  ask  her  "a  fool  question." 

The  following-  morning-  Guy  rode  back  to 
London.  He  tells  that  he  made  the  jour- 
ney, "  heavily  revolving-  many  thing's  in  his 
mind."  He  did  not  know  it,  but  he  had 
passed  throug-h  a  momentous  experience: 
at  one  and  the  same  time  he  had  been  awak- 
ened to  his  best  impulses  as  a  citizen  and  as 
a  man.  He  had  his  crude  and  cynical  im- 
aginations of  man  and  woman  jostled  out  of 
shape;  for  in  Ferrars  he  found  an  honest 
married  priest,  and  in  the  insolently  adored 
mistress  of  his  fancy,  the  woman  whom  he 
should  love  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

If  there  was  one  being-  Guy  despised 
more  than  another  it  was  "the  married 
priest."  This  opinion  was  the  common 
property  of  his  time ;  even  the  Princess 
Elizabeth  could  not  rid  herself  of  it,  and 
when  one  reads  the  published  defense  of 
their  marriag-es  given  the  world  by  some 
of  the  English  clergy,  it  may  be  owned  that 
the  scornful  had  some  excuse.  Guy  him- 
self, like  a  multitude  of  young  Englishmen 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  109 

of  his  generation,  buffeted  backward  and 
forward  between  Catholicism  and  Protest- 
antism, was,  in  the  phrase  of  the  time, 
"  a  neuter,  a  person  of  no  faith."  To  him 
the  new  religion  looked  an  indecent  scram- 
ble for  spoils  on  the  part  of  the  laity,  and 
for  license  on  the  part  of  the  clergy;  and 
the  married  priests  with  their  wives  and 
children  and  their  greedy  palms  were  a 
noxious  and  scandalous  spectacle.  Yet  to- 
day he  had  seen  a  married  priest  who  loved 
his  wife  and  child,  and  none  the  less  had 
kept  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart.  That 
Ferrars  was  not  of  the  exalted  spiritual 
type,  but  simply  a  healthy,  not  too  refined 
follower  of  righteousness,  helped  his  influ- 
ence over  Guy,  who  had  the  moderate 
man's  incredulous  contempt  for  exaltation 
of  feeling. 

"I  will  never  maintain  again  that  a  new 
priest  may  not  be  a  true  man,"  said  Guy. 

And  he  has  left  his  own  record  of  his 
state  of  mind  regarding  Margaret. 

"Before,  when  he  was  assured  she  re- 
garded him  not,  he  had  pursued  her  right 
earnestly;  but  now  that  he  did  perceive  that 


no  The  Dilemma  of 

she  had  bestowed  her  heart  upon  him  (so  un- 
worthy) he  was  mazed  and  durst  no  longer 
proceed,  but  would  as  it  were  protect  her, 
yea  against  his  own  self.  So  was  he  sore 
distraught,  seeing  no  joy  or  delight  in  living 
without  this  lady ;  yet  fully  persuaded  she 
would  in  no  wise  fall  from  her  duty  to  her 
lord ;  and,  therewith  consumed  with  such 
excess  of  admiring  and  longing  sorrow  that 
he  did  weep  to  think  of  her,  yet  could  he 
by  no  manner  of  means  divert  his  mind 
from  her." 

Edward  was  dead  and  Mary  reigned  in 
his  stead,  and  the  mass  was  back  in  Eng- 
land, before  Guy  saw  the  little  Devonshire 
town  again. 

Meaii while  evil  days  had  come  to  Robert 
Ferrars.  So  long  as  Somerset  was  in 
power,  the  Pagets'  influence  kept  his  ene- 
mies at  bay;  but  Sir  William's  address 
only  availed  to  save  his  own  neck,  after  the 
duke's  fall.  He  retired  to  what  was  left  of 
his  estates,  and  Guy  went  to  help  fight  the 
Turks.  Presently,  Ferrars  was  summoned 
to  London  on  the  same  "  frivole  reasonings  " 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  ill 

which  he  had  discussed  with  Guy.  He  was 
thrown  into  prison,  and  in  prison  he  was, 
on  Mary's  accession  to  the  throne.  The 
Pagets  came  back  with  the  Catholic  queen. 
The  Lord  Paget  had  been  the  most  moder- 
ate of  Protestants;  he  was  an  equally  tol- 
erant Catholic ;  but  moderate  men  were 
speedily  pushed  into  the  background  by 
fanatics  wild  with  the  unslaked  hatreds  of 
the  time. 

In  vain  all  Guy's  influence  was  exerted 
for  the  bishop's  release.  He  was  deposed 
from  his  see  as  a  married  priest;  he  was 
kept  in  prison.  His  wife  sickened  and 
died,  but  Guy  obtained  the  poor  boon  of 
taking  him,  under  his  own  charge,  for  a 
farewell  visit  to  her.  There  is  still  extant 
an  affecting  letter  which  the  bishop  wrote 
to  Margaret  Godsalve  relating  to  this  visit. 
And  with  the  bishop's  letter  is  one  of  thanks 
to  Guy  from  Margaret — evidently  inclos- 
ing the  first.  Margaret's  letter  is  indorsed 
in  Guy's  handwriting:  "My  Dearling 
Lady,  Her  first  letter  writ  to  Me." 

Margaret  at  this  point  was  in  France. 
Her  father  had  been  concerned  in  Wyatt's 


1 1 2  The  Dilemma  of 

insurrection  and  fled.  Her  husband,  though 
nominally  loyal  to  the  queen,  was  reported 
to  sympathize  secretly  with  the  insurgents. 

It  is  written  in  every  history  how  Lord 
Paget  succeeded  in  defeating  the  heresy 
bills  of  two  parliaments,  and  how  he  failed 
in  the  third.  In  every  history,  also,  is  it 
written  how,  though  he  failed  when  the 
question  only  touched  men's  lives,  he  suc- 
ceeded at  every  point  in  keeping  for  the 
laymen  all  the  church  property  which 
Henry  VIII  had  stolen  for  them.  Natur- 
ally, all  this  did  not  help  Paget's  court 
favor.  He  remained  president  of  the 
Welsh  Marshes.  He  was  of  her  majesty's 
privy  council.  The  lands  which  had  been 
confiscated  were  his  again.  But  the  queen 
looked  coldly  on  him;  he  was  "  vehemently 
suspect,"  and  "  my  Lord  of  Winchester  did 
whisper  to  my  Lord  Riche  at  the  Lady 
Jane's  execution  that,  for  a  small  pretext, 
they  would  make  the  Lord  Paget 's  head 
dance  the  like  dance." 

Shortly  after,  Guy,  being  summoned  by 
his  uncle,  found  that  cool-headed  statesman 
"  in  a  fume." 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  1 1 3 

"By  God's  wounds,  nephew  Guy,"  were 
the  first  words  Guy  could  win,  "  these 
bloody  tikes  of  priests  will  break  the  neck 
of  mother  church,  of  their  own  swinge ! 
Ten  heretics  burned  in  this  one  month ! 
They  be  the  veriest  dolts  !  Wot  they  not 
'tis  the  best  of  the  new  religion  will  stand 
steadfast,  and  men  will  pity  their  suffer- 
ings, and,  at  the  length,  turn  on  their  tor- 
menters  !  By  the  passion  of  Christ,  it  put- 
teth  me  out  of  my  patience  !  And  now  they 
will  send  the  poor  old  age,  Master  Ferrars, 
down  to  Wales  to  be  tried  of  the  new  bishop, 
Morgan,  and  that  cursed  knave,  Constan- 
tine.  An  he  do  not  recant — and  ye  wot  he 
is  of  stomach  stout  and  hard  —  they  will 
sure  burn  him.  They  did  send  him  down 
to  Wales  with  Lord  William  Radcliffe  ;  but 
they  need  him  elsewhere,  so  they  demanded 
me,  in  the  council  this  morning,  if  ye  were 
not  trusty  to  be  sent.  I  ween  'tis  to  prac- 
tice with  us  that  they  may  find  a  pretext  to 
destroy  us;  but  I  durst  not  refuse. 

"  Thou  must  go,  Guy.  See  to  it  the  man 
doth  not  give  ye  the  slip,  and  that  he  be 


H4  The  Dilemma  of 

mercifully  entreated.  God,  He  knoweth  I 
do  rue  for  him." 

So,  "very  heavily,"  Guy  went.  He  had 
planned  a  different  errand  to  Devonshire. 
Sir  John  was  dead  and  Marg-aret,  he  had 
heard,  was  in  England  ag-ain.  Of  what  had 
been  his  relations  with  Lady  Godsalve  dur- 
ing- the  intervening-  years ;  whether  he  had 
ever  tried  to  drag-  his  star  from  heaven, 
whether  he  had  kept  his  own  fidelity  un- 
stained throug-h  all  the  temptation  of  his 
youth  and  that  unbridled  time  —  of  such 
matters  Guy  has  said  nothing-,  but  it  is 
plain  that  Marg-aret  was  still  "  infinitely 
virtuous"  as  she  was  infinitely  fair;  and 
the  stiff  phrases  of  the  day  relax  into  grace 
and  tenderness  if  they  do  but  approach  her 
imag-e. 

Therefore,  not  only  "  marvelous  sorrow- 
ful" over  Ferrars's  sad  case,  but  "much 
afeared  lest  the  lady  mig-ht  take  his  errand 
in  ill  part,"  Guy  rode  into  Devonshire  to 
the  same  villag-e  where  he  had  encount- 
ered Lord  William  before.  There  was 
little  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  village 
street.  The  church  had  plain  windows, 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  115 

and  a  priest  in  a  white  rochet  was  celebrat- 
ing- mass,  while  a  bell  tolled  from  the  tower 
before  which  stout  Sir  Giles  had  swung-. 
He  was  welcomed  at  the  inn  by  the  land- 
lady, grown  a  trifle  weig-htier  and  rosier, 
and  by  Will  tapster,  himself,  standing-  now 
in  the  landlord's  shoes,  that  timorous 
worthy  having-  escaped  to  the  only  sure 
refuge  from  tumult  and  fear  in  England, 
the  villag-e  graveyard. 

The  porch  seats  were  filled  much  as  they 
had  been  before,  and  the  rustics  stared  at 
the  soldiers'  corselets  and  hacquebuts  with 
the  same  mixture  of  dread  and  aversion. 
Guy  made  out  some  of  the  faces;  but  the 
young-  man  who  had  praised  Latimer  was 
g-one.  The  hostess  had  kept  all  the  details 
of  his  visit  with  rural  tenacity,  and  recalled 
them  volubly.  She  had  not  lost  her  habit 
of  bold  speech.  "  Well  a  day,  'tis  rare  g-ood 
luck  your  worship  be  come,"  she  cried; 
"  L/ord  William  he  be  reveling-  with  a  great 
sort  of  g-entlemen  at  the  hall,  and  the  poor 
old  heretic  man  been  put  in  a  little  blind 
house  adjoining-,  where  we  do  keep  the 


n6  The  Dilemma  of 

coals;  and  no  fire  withal,  so  he  be  like  to 
starve  for  cold!" 

Laying-  up  a  reckoning-  (which  he  after- 
ward paid  in  full)  for  Lord  William,  in  his 
own  mind,  Guy  had  Ferrars  removed  to  the 
inn  chamber,  where  was  a  fire  and  a  supper 
laid  out,  and  the  best  bed  well  warmed. 

The  bishop,  who  had  greeted  Guy  with 
all  his  usual  aifection,  now  looked  about 
him  with  a  broad  smile.  "  Yea,  even  pennar 
and  inkhorn!"  he  exclaimed,  gleefully. 
"Verily,  g-ood  youth,  thou  art  my  white 
son.  God  be  praised,  'tis  in  dolour  and 
hardness  that  a  man  findeth  out  the  kind- 
ness of  men.  The  good  man  of  the  house 
he  did  fet  me  a  great  mess  of  meat  and 
bread  and  a  stoup  of  wine ;  and  the  woman 
did  send  me  the  cloak  of  her  husband  that 
dead  is.  He  was  of  slig-ht  personage,"  the 
bishop  laug-hed,  "  and  I  as  ye  see,  but, 
marry,  it  softened  the  coals  for  me,  and  I 
have  an  ill  back.  I  pray  you,  Sir  Guy,  thank 
her  for  her  gentleness.  The  keepers  in 
the  city  left  me  little,  but  I  have  a  silver 
groat  I  would  send  her." 

"This  is  not  the  meeting  I  had  hoped 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  117 

for,"  groaned  Guy,  unmanned  by  the  old 
man's  cheerfulness. 

"Nay,  good  youth,  thou  hast  done  thine 
uttermost  for  me;  regret  it  not,  nor  rue  for 
me.  I  mind  me  ever  of  the  old  saying-: 

'  Although  the  day  be  ever  so  long 
At  last  it  ringeth  to  evensong. ' 

Pray  you  sup  with  me,  my  son,  and  tell 
me  of  our  friends." 

Then  followed  a  scene  strange  enough, 
but  of  a  like  nature  to  those  witnessed 
often  in  England,  at  this  time. 

The  heretic  and  his  most  unwilling- guard 
supped  together  while  the  soldiers  watched 
outside.  Vainly  the  courtier  taxed  his 
subtle  wit  to  persuade  Ferrars  to  choose 
life  instead  of  death. 

"Oh,  consider,"  he  cried,  unconsciously 
speaking  the  words  of  another  man  of  the 
world  to  a  martyr,  "life  is  sweet  and  death 
is  bitter;  and  will  ye  die  for  such  empty 
words?" 

A  very  pleasant,  gentle  smile  stole  over 
the  old  man's  rugged  features,  gaunt  and 
pale  with  imprisonment.  uYe  remem- 
ber," said  he,  "I  was  ever  addict  to  songs 


n8  The  Dilemma  of 

and  rhymes.  My  dear  heart,  when  she  was 
with  me,  did  often  repeat  to  me  one  that 
marvelously  comforted  me : 

*  He  that  dieth  with  honor  liveth  forever, 
But  the  defamed  dead  recovereth  never. ' 

Nay,  nay,  my  son,  I  die  for  no  idle  words, 
but  for  the  very  truth  of  God." 

"Ye  would  die  against  the  mass,  and 
poor  Father  Giles  he  died  for  the  mass," 
said  Guy  with  the  irritation  of  despair; 
"ye  cannot  both  be  right " 

"Nay,  Father  Giles  be  all  wrong-,"  said 
the  bishop,  cheerily,  "I  have  the  warrant 
of  Holy  Writ." 

Thus  the  talk  went  on  as  such  talk  was 
going  on  in  England,  whenever  the  man  of 
the  world  and  the  man  of  the  other  world 
held  their  everlasting  dispute.  Guy  was 
too  shrewd  not  to  perceive  the  helplessness 
of  his  arguments.  He  was  as  powerless  to 
move  the  bishop  as  the  bishop  would  have 
been  to  persuade  the  young  courtier  to  go 
to  the  stake  on  his  own  account  because  he 
did  not  believe  in  the  "  mummery  of  the 
mass." 

Sadly  enough  he  bade  the  old  man  good- 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  119 

night  and  betook  himself  to  his  chamber. 
He  had  posted  his  guards  about  the  house 
and  he  made  the  rounds  before  he  retired. 
Down  the  street  the  flare  of  the  torches 
showed  him  three  soldiers.  "Those  be 
Lord  William's  antients,  belike,"  said 
the  old  lieutenant  who  had  served  with 
Paget  in  Hungary.  Just  then  one  of  them 
turned  his  head.  Guy  experienced  that  un- 
defined sense  of  recognition  which  often 
bothers  the  man  trained  to  remember 
faces.  "  Somewhere  did  I  see  that  fellow's 
hawk  eyes,"  thought  Guy. 

His  troops  placed,  the  chamber  where 
the  bishop  lay  guarded  at  every  approach, 
Guy  went  into  the  porch  chamber  which 
was  his  own.  The  porch  chamber  was  built 
out  from  the  house  above  the  porch,  a  com- 
mon architectural  feature  in  Tudor  man- 
sions. Leaning  out  of  the  window,  he  could 
plainly  hear  the  voices  of  the  loiterers  in 
the  porch.  Guy  extinguished  his  taper 
and  listened.  It  was  more  to  distract  his 
thoughts  than  from  any  analyzed  purpose. 

Now  and  then  a  sentence  rose  above  the 
murmur. 


I2O  The  Dilemma  of 

"Well,  I  care  not  for  strangers,  gaffer; 
but  poor  Jock  Dobson " 

"  He  be  a  right  merciful  man  an  he  do  be 
a  heretic.  I  did  see  him  beg  Martin's  life 
i'  this  very  place." 

"  Martin,  forsooth !  'twas  an  ill  fact  that 
—  'tis  the  most  arrant  rogue  and  robber  i' 
the  country  side." 

"Never  a  soul  i'  this  town  hath  had 
wrong  of  Martin." 

The  words  were  lost  in  an  unintelligible 
buzz  of  Martin's  exploits,  besprinkled  with 
peals  of  laughter  as  if  Martin's  wickedness 
must  have  a  humorous  twang.  Then  some 
voice  said  that  Martin  had  seen  "the  here- 
tic." 

"Say,  dame,"  was  the  next  clear  sen- 
tence, "will  they  burn  him  like  they  did 
poor  Dobson?" 

"  Yea,  but  not  here,  they  only  bide  here 
overnight.  They  will  burn  him  in  Wales. 
Alack  the  pity,  'tis  a  hard  death,  burning!" 

"The  gospelers  be  in  some  sort  Chris- 
tian men"  —  Guy  recognized  the  mercer's 
voice  —  "I  think  burning  should  be  for 
ana-baptists  and  arians  and  such  like." 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  121 

"  I  warrant  I  could  not  abide  the  fire.  I 
should  recant." 

"  Best  not  take  up  with  their  gay  glorious 
doctrines,  then,  gossip;  they  be  all  of  the 
devil,  Father  Giles  said." 

"  Marry,  this  same  Lord  William  was  't 
that  hanged  him;  then  would  he  give  the 
mass  ne  cap  ne  knee;  and  he  hacked  the 
rood  down  and  made  a  gallows  out  o't  for  to 
hang  a  poor  good  Catholic  clown.  How 
chance  he  hath  not  been  dealt  roundly  with? 
This  poor  man  did  no  burning,  no  hanging 
that  I  wot  of;  yet  Lord  William  hath  lands 
and  lordship,  but  this  poor  miser  needs 
burn.  Neighbors,  I  be  the  queen's  right 
subject,  God  bless  her;  but  I  like  not  these 
burnings." 

"The  times  be  no  better,"  an  aged  voice 
grumbled,  "and  there  be  a  meanie  of  Span- 
ish men  to  eat  up  all  poor  England  hath. 
'Tis  bruited  the  queen  meaneth  to  make 
the  prince  king,  for  the  great  love  she  hath 
for  him." 

"More  than  he  for  her,  belike,"  the  yeo- 
man muttered. 

No  one  reproved  him ;  they  were  suddenly 


122  The  Dilemma  of 

all  so  silent  that  Guy  looked  down  the  street 
for  the  cause,  instantly  apparent  in  the  ap- 
proach of  several  figures  on  horseback. 
Coming  under  the  light  from  the  inn  win- 
dows they  were  revealed  as  a  gentlewoman, 
an  old  serving  woman,  and  two  serving  men, 
all  attended  by  Guy's  lieutenant  and  half  a 
dozen  soldiers. 

"I  seek  Sir  Guy  Paget,  good  people," 
said  a  voice  that  made  his  pulses  bound.  In 
a  moment  he  was  before  the  lady  of  his 
dreams.  She  was  calm  enough ;  every  other 
emotion  had  been  smothered  by  the  stress 
of  one  overwhelming  fear. 

"Sir  Guy,  thou  knowest  mine  errand  with- 
out my  telling  it.  Thou  hast  mine  uncle's 
life  in  thy  hands.  Oh,  be  his  good  lord ! " 

*  'Alas,  madam,  I  have  no  power, ' '  said  Guy ; 
"I  have  labored  him  sore  to  recant,  but  he 
will  not." 

"  And  there  be  no  hope  for  him  with  Mor- 
gan and  Constantine, "  said  the  lady,  "I  know 
that  right  well." 

Guy  assented,  despondently. 

"How  wicked  be  these  laws,"  she  cried, 
wringing  her  hands,  but  dry-eyed  in  her 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  123 

misery;  "an  I  were  a  man  I  would  fight 
them  till  I  died!" 

"My  uncle,  he  did  his  uttermost  in  par- 
liament," said  Guy,  feeling  the  weakness  of 
his  words.  He  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
away  from  her,  where  she  stood,  the  candle- 
light on  her  white  face  and  her  curling  dark 
red  hair  and  glittering  eyes  and  the  scarlet, 
trembling  lips. 

"In  parliament !  like  clerks ! "  the  passion- 
ate speech  flowed  on,  "but  ye  be  a  valiant 
knight,  ye  wear  a  sword.  Think,  they  will 
burn  twenty  this  week !  Some  of  them  be 
women,  some  lads,  nigh  children,  that  never 
heard  of  any  other  religion.  How  can  the 
nobles  and  gentles  of  England  sit  by  and  see 
such  foul  shame!" 

"What  profiteth  fighting?"  said  Guy. 
"Wyatt,  what  hath  he  done  to  help  the  her- 
etics? He  hath  only  lost  his  own  head  and 
many  an  honest  gentleman's  beside."  He 
caught  the  hands  that  she  flung  up  in  a  wild 
gesture,  and  held  the  white  wrists.  "List- 
en, dear  heart — nay,  ye  shall  not  scorn  me, 
Margaret,  I  be  no  coward  knave,  my  heart 
is  heavy  for  these  poor  heretics.  Yea,  I 


124  The  Dilemma  of 

would  fight  for  them,  did  fighting  serve  ; 
but  the  Lady  Mary  is  our  rightful  queen. 
I  will  not  bring  in  the  French  king  to  con- 
quer England." 

She  let  her  face  droop  until  her  cheek 
rested  almost  against  his  hands  which  were 
holding  her  wrists.  "  Forgive  me,  Sir  Guy, 
I  did  wrong  thee.  Alack,  I  be  haired  out  of 
my  wits  with  the  planning  and  thinking.  I 
know  thou  wouldst  serve  him.  And  it  is  so 
easy.  Ah,  sir,  do  for  me  one  little,  little 
thing?" 

"What,  sweetheart?"  he  said,  dreamily. 
How  passing  sweet  it  was  to  have  her  so 
near  him — and  she  was  free! 

"The  password  for  to-night." 

She  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Just  that — 
only  that— to  me." 

"What  would  ye  with  the  password?" 

"Nay,  do  not  ask.  Best  to  know  naught. 
Only  tell  it  me." 

"  'Tis  a  device  to  free  Master  Ferrars." 

He  spoke  very  gently  but  sadly.  Suddenly 
he  kissed  her  wrist. 

"Thou  knowest   how  I    love  thee,"  he 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  125 

groaned,  "and  thou  wouldst  make  me  a  for- 
sworn man!" 

"Nay,  not  so.  Leave  holding-  of  my 
hands,  Sir  Guy,  I  pray  thee." 

When  he  dropped  her  wrists  she  turned 
and  sat  down,  making  a  piteous  effort  at 
composure.  "Fy,  I  do  talk  like  a  fond  wo- 
man. Look,  I  will  go  to  work  roundly  with 
you  to  amend  your  reasoning.  Prythee 
allow  me  require  certain  things  of  ye.  Is 
it  because  ye  deem  this  law  to  be  righteous 
that  ye  help  it  thus,  or  because  ye  be  sent 
to  execute  it?" 

"Ye  wot 'tis  the  latter.  I  be  a  soldier.  I 
obey  them  that  have  authority. " 

"But  deem  ye  a  soldier  must  obey  al- 
ways? Say  they  command  ye  murder  babes, 
like  King  Herod  ?  Or  like  him  that  sent  to 
kill  the  babes  in  the  Tower?  Did  those 
slayers,  by  authority,  right  well?  Or  say, 
the  queen — the  which  is  a  shrewd  likeli- 
hood, sith  she  be  a  cruel  and  irous  dame — 
say  she  will  ye  to  despatch  the  Lady  Eliza- 
beth? Shall  ye  do  her  will  and  wash  your 
hands,  saying,  'Marry,  I  be  sent  by  author- 
ity'? Tush !  Away  with  such  reasoning  for 


126  The  Dilemma  of 

a  free-born  Englishman !  I  tell  ye,  Sir  Guy 
Paget,  ye  stain  your  knightly  sword  when 
ye  lift  it  in  such  a  quarrel !  He  is  a  gentle- 
man that  hath  gentle  conditions.  And  he 
that  helpeth  wicked  men  to  murder — and, 
lol  how  cruelly  ! — an  innocent,  kind  old  man 
that  hath  wrought  only  good,  yea,  by  God's 
mercy,  he  be  no  gentleman,  no  knight,  but 
a  murdering  slave  I " 

"  Ye  drive  me  too  hard,"  cried  the  young 
man,  beside  himself;  "I  tell  ye,  my  uncle, 
that  is  more  than  a  father  to  me,  he  hath  my 
word.  Oh,  Margaret,  show  pity,  drive  me 
not  out  of  my  manhood ! " 

But  she  was  too  much  of  a  woman  to  be 
merciful.  She  rose.  She  walked  to  him 
and  knelt  at  his  feet. 

"Guy,"  she  whispered,  while  he  could 
hardly  see  her  face  for  the  daze  of  anguish 
in  his  eyes,  "Guy,  often  hast  thou  sworn 
that  thou  lovest  me;  and  I  could  not  tell 
thee  how  even  so  did  I  love  thee.  No  one 
will  know;  Martin  (he  that  the  bishop  saved, 
here,  in  this  town)  will  do  all.  Thy  uncle 
will  have  no  guilt.  Thou  need'st  know 
nothing  or — "  she  lifted  her  radiant  eyes 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  127 

to  him — "  thou  shall  know  all  and  fly  with 
him — and  me — to  my  father  in  Normandy. 
My  father  will  not  refuse  me  to  thee — then  /" 

How  many  times  had  Guy  pictured  this 
moment  when  he  should  speak  his  heart 
and  know  hers ;  he  had  hoped  and  trembled, 
he  had  conjured  up  a  hundred  possibilities, 
but  never — never  anything-  like  this.  In 
his  deep  bitterness  of  soul  he  groaned 
aloud. 

And  with  that,  "  seeing-  him  so  moved  and 
being-  in  a  measure  distraught  with  her  mis- 
ery, she  did  embrace  his  feet  with  weeping- 
tears,  calling-  him  her  dear  lord,  and  such 
like  expressions,  which  did,  as  it  were,  sear 
his  heart;  so  that  he  was  marvelous  fain  to 
give  her  her  will,  yet  would  he  not  yield." 

It  could  not  be,  he  said ;  he  had  given  his 
word  to  his  uncle. 

She  urged  him  further,  for  she  knew  that 
the  lieutenant  of  the  guard  was  to  come  di- 
rectly; imploring  -him  if  he  decided  for 
mercy  to  send  a  ring  ("therewith  she  gave 
it  him")  by  Will  tapster,  "who  was  trusty," 
with  the  password  written  and  slipped  into 
a  hiding  place  in  the  ring. 


128  The  Dilemma  of 

Scarcely  had  she  shown  him  the  "trick  of 
the  stone"  before  the  lieutenant's  knock 
was  heard. 

They  had  but  a  moment  together.  Mar- 
garet drew  Guy's  dark  head  down  until  it 
was  level  with  her  eyes.  She  kissed  him. 
"That  do  I,"  she  said,  while  he  looked  at 
her  "like  a  dumb  man  with  a  knife  in  his 
heart,"  "because  after  this  night  either 
thou  art  my  husband,  or  else  a  man  barbar- 
ous and  forsworn  whom  I  never  will  see 
more — and  I  have  loved  thee  as  mine  own 
soul!" 

She  dropped  her  hands  and  opened  the 
door.  Guy  saw  her  step  into  the  shadows, 
he  heard  the  rustle  of  her  gown  on  the  floor. 
She  turned  and  passed  down  the  stair. 

"Come  back  to  me  when  I  call,"  Guy  told 
the  lieutenant;  "I  have  somewhat  to  write, 
before." 

He  closed  the  heavy  door  upon  the  man. 
He  was  left  alone  with  his  dilemma. 

To  Martin's  plans  he  had  no  clew — nor 
does  he  supply  any  to  us  out  of  his  later 
knowledge — but  he  felt  sure,  now,  that  the 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  129 

soldier  with  the  vaguely  recognized  face 
was  the  outlaw  himself. 

Martin  may  have  contemplated  strategy 
alone ;  but  it  is  likely  he  had  force  in  reserve. 
The  burning  of  Dobson  and  two  others  of 
the  townspeople  had  seriously  shaken  their 
loyalty.  Martin  was  sure  of  their  tacit  good 
will.  Armed  with  the  password,  he  could 
mtroducehismenintotheinn.  If  the  queen's 
men  resisted,  there  would  be  bloody  fight- 
ing and  the  bishop  would  be  "conveyed 
away"  in  the  meUe.  "Then  will  the  poor 
knaves  lose  their  lives  because  I  have  first 
lost  mine  honor,"  thought  Guy,  bitterly. 
"And  what  would  befall  his  uncle  while  he 
led  a  merry  life  with  his  wife  in  France?" 

All  his  life,  Guy  had  not  only  loved  his 
uncle,  he  had  also  admired  that  long-headed 
and  rather  cool-hearted  courtier,  above  all 
living  men.  Apart  from  any  question  of 
soldierly  duty  or  his  conduct  as  a  subject, 
his  defection  would  most  probably  ruin  Sir 
William.  On  the  other  hand,  was  he  to  be 
the  minister  of  a  hideous  injustice,  to  de- 
liver the  affectionate  and  brave  old  man,  to 
whom  he  owed  the  awakening  and  purify- 


130  The  Dilemma  of 

ing-  of  his  own  soul,  over  to  the  most  cruel 
of  deaths,  and  to  lose  forever  his  most  pre- 
cious hopes?  Let  him  describe  the  conflict 
in  his  own  words:  "Wherefore  I  was  in 
anguish  and  tumult  of  soul,  thinking  whether 
it  be  best  to  quit  my  allegiance  and  my  faith 
to  my  uncle  who  trusted  me  ever  with  all 
he  had,  or  whether  to  both  be  the  cause  of 
a  good  man's  destruction  and  to  lose  her 
that  was  dearest  to  me  of  any  woman  in  the 
world,  I  being  then  a  young  man  at  an  age 
over  which  Love  hath  hisextremest  power." 

He  paced  the  floor.  At  times  he  wrung 
his  hands,  at  times  he  wept;  but  in  the  end 
he  summoned  his  lieutenant  and  bade  him 
prepare  all  things  for  departure.  He  wrote 
a  letter  to  Margaret  explaining  his  course 
and  its  harsh  necessity.  This  letter  he 
sent  to  her  (with  the  ring)  by  Will  tapster. 
"And  by  this  time,  all  being  in  readiness, 
they  fared  forth  on  their  journey." 

There  is  a  large  space  devoted  to  the 
journey  into  Wales,  in  Guy's  narrative. 
He  described  the  doomed  man's  "joyance" 
in  the  sunshine,  in  the  spring  green  creep- 
ing into  the  sedges  and  covert  sides,  in  the 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  131 

flight  of  the  herons,  the  song  of  the  mavis, 
and  the  crisp  air ;  "he  having  been  so  long 
pent  away  from  all."  He  tells  how  people 
used  to  stand  at  the  wayside  to  see  them 
pass,  "  most  often  of  sad  countenance,  and 
many  crying:  'God  sustain  you,  sir ! '  or  'God 
send  you  deliverance! '  " 

He  repeats  all  Ferrars's  affecting  talk  of 
his  son,  and  his  messages  to  the  child,  and 
his  own  promise  to  "deal  with  the  little 
Samuel  like  as  it  were  his  own  son."  He 
gives  the  "jests"  and  the  "stories"  and 
the  "  merry  quips  on  words  "  in  which  the 
old  man  indulged,  after  the  fashion  of  his 
time ;  as  well  as  the  grave  and  godly  talk. 
But  it  would  seem  that  in  his  last  days,  as 
always,  Ferrars  had  more  faith  in  doing 
justice  and  showing  mercy  than  in  spiritual 
exercises;  though  he  humbly  reproaches 
himself  therefor,  "  with  dullness  and  gross- 
ness  of  nature  and  over  love  of  this  glosing 
world. "  Guy  has  not  omitted  a  touch  in  the 
picture ;  he  cannot  bear  to  slight  a  word  of 
this  man  who  moves  him  so  strongly  and 
whom  he  had  given  over  to  death.  We  can 
see  the  cheery  old  man  on  Guy's  own  fiery 


132  The  Dilemma  of 

charg-er  ("  for  as  old  as  he  been  there  was 
no  horse  he  could  not  ride,  and  all  beasts 
loved  him  ")  whistling-  the  notes  of  the  birds 
or  "g-odly  tunes." 

"For  sure,"  said  he,  " it  were  ungrate- 
ful to  the  Lord  that  granteth  me  these 
days  of  solace  before  my  trial  not  to  joy  in 
them  and  strengihen  my  heart.  The  Lord 
loveth  a  cheerful  giver,  be  it  of  life  or  g-ear." 

But  Guy,  himself  —  one  only  finds  here 
and  there  a  hint  of  his'confused  misery. 

They  had  reached  the  Welsh  marshes 
when  they  were  overtaken  by  a  flying-  horse- 
man. He  delivered  to  Guy,  as  token,  the 
ring-  which  he  had  such  sorrowful  cause  to 
know,  and  a  pacquet.  The  pacquet  con- 
tained a  letter  to  Ferrars  and  another  to 
himself.  When  he  opened  the  latter  he 
found  only  his  own  eag-er  words  of  pleading- 
and  pain. 

The  town  of  Caermarthen  is  the  princi- 
pal town  of  the  diocese  of  St.  Davids.  It 
lies  on  the  river  Towy,  and  its  narrow 
streets  creep  up  a  hill  to  the  market  place 
and  the  massive  castle,  old  as  the  Welsh 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  133 

princes.  On  the  thirty-first  day  of  March , 
1555,  the  market  place  had  but  one  vacant 
spot,  a  little  space  about  the  cross,  in  which 
a  four-cornered  pile  of  fagots  had  been  built 
as  high  as  a  man's  waist.  An  oaken  stake 
stood  in  the  center  and  a  chain  was  locked 
to  the  stake. 

Like  a  wide  wall  of  light  the  sunshine 
shifted  from  blazing-  point  to  point  of  breast- 
plates, steel  caps  and  halberts,  massed 
close  as  men  could  stand  between  the  stake 
and  the  wavering,  black  sea  of  Welsh  hats 
and  frieze.  A  platform  had  been  erected, 
whereon,  as  the  custom  was,  the  priests 
and  commissioners  sate,  to  watch  the  hid- 
eous pageant.  People  pointed  out  a  sleek, 
dark-skinned  priest  nervously  fidgeting  his 
arms  in  his  wide  velvet  sleeves;  and  the 
name  Constantine  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth. 

On  the  platform  they  ubore  a  solemn 
countenance, "  relaxed  now  and  then  when 
some  wag  told  a  good  story  such  as  in  our 
day  would  beguile  the  tedium  of  the  pall 
bearers'  ride  to  the  grave. 

But  below,  among  the  pale  women  and 


134  The  Dilemma  of 

men  with  set  jaws  and  lowering*  brows,  and 
the  little  children  who  had  loved  Robert 
Ferrars,  the  suffering  whom  he  had  com- 
forted and  the  friendless  poor  whom  he  had 
defended,  there  was  no  jesting-.  Tears  were 
on  many  faces.  One  man  standing-  close  to 
the  guards  could  not  wipe  his  eyes  because 
he  was  holding  a  bag  of  gunpowder,  and  a 
soldier  near  by  did  him  that  office,  his  own 
eyes  full.  Presently  this  soldier  was  hold- 
ing the  bag,  and  the  man  had  disappeared. 

The  crowd  have  waited  since  dawn,  and 
it  is  now  noon;  but  no  one  goes  away. 
Mothers  ease  the  children's  blistered  feet 
by  holding  them  in  their  arms. 

Now  a  universal  movement  in  the  crowd 
shakes  a  little  even  that  burnished  line  of 
steel.  Every  head  is  turned  to  the  little 
group  coming  slowly  from  the  castle  gate- 
way. Taller  than  any  of  them,  all  the  peo- 
ple recognize  that  well  loved  figure  and  the 
familiar  hat.  Before  they  reach  the  mar- 
ket place  a  haggard  rider  on  a  flagging 
horse  gallops  through  the  lane  made  for 
him  at  once.  There  are  cheers  and  shouts 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  135 

of  " Grace!  grace!"  "A  pardon!  a  par- 
don ! " 

"  There  be  no  grace,  good  people,  only 
the  devil's  wonted  bait ! "  shouts  a  strong 
voice;  and  a  wail  in  women's  tones  echoes 
the  bold  heretic. 

Guy  has  not  heard  them  at  all.  He  is  so 
spent  with  his  long  ride  and  the  sleepless 
nights,  before,  that  he  tumbles  off  his  sad- 
dle at  Master  Ferrars's  feet.  "  Ha,  good 
youth,"  says  the  kind,  loud  voice  Guy 
knows,  "  the  Lord  be  praised  I  see  ye  once 
more." 

Guy  knows  that  Margaret  is  close  to  him, 
and,  clinging  to  her,  a  fair  haired  child ;  but 
he  has  no  power  to  feel  an  additional  pang; 
he  knows  that  Margaret  must  have  told  the 
bishop  all ;  but  he  has  no  feeling  left  to  be 
hurt  or  comforted  by  the  serene  and  kindly 
gaze  that  is  bent  on  him. 

He  takes  out  a  paper  and  makes  the  last 
ineffectual  appeal.  He  felt  it  useless  when 
he  started,  but  to  make  it  he  has  ridden 
night  and  day.  The  paper  is  the  mildest 
possible  form  of  recantation.  Let  the 
bishop  sign  it,  no  public  penance  shall  be 


136  The  Dilemma  of 

exacted;  he  shall  be  free  to  leave  the 
country. 

So  Guy  tells  him,  and  the  sheriff  adds 
his  word  of  persuasion,  being-  a  merciful 
man. 

Every  one  near  can  hear  the  bishop's  an- 
swer. "  Consider,  fair  sir,  how  thou,  a  neu- 
ter and  a  worldly  person,  would  not  break 
thy  faith  to  thine  earthly  lord,  but  would 
rather  be  letted  of  a  great  estate  and  of  the 
wife  thou  hast  chosen  ;  then  shall  I,  for  the 
sake  of  a  few  more  years  or  the  queen's 
favor,  forsake  my  good  God  ?  Nay,  God 
helping  me,  never.  If  death  come,  wel- 
come be  it.  True,  the  manner  of  it  be 
dreadful,  but  it  is  the  portal  to  life  eternal." 
Then  smiling  he  added:  "'Tis  like  thou, 
beholding,  wilt  suffer  more  than  I ;  so,  as  a 
sign  that  the  pain  be  bearable  I  will  hold  up 
my  hands."  Guy  entreated  him  no  more. 
He  saw  him  embrace  his  child,  who  cried  a 
little  at  the  crowd  and  the  sad  faces,  and  did 
not  understand  why  he  might  not  go  with 
his  father;  but  was  led  away  smiling,  at  last, 
with  Margaret's  gold  chain. 

The  muscles  of  the  father's  face   quiv- 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  137 

ered,  and  he  dashed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes.  "A  good  child,  and  winsome, "  he  said, 
in  a  husky  voice.  "  Ye  will  remember,  Sir 
Guy." 

Then  he  embraced  Guy  and  blessed  him, 
and  so  went  cheerfully  on  to  his  suffering. 

It  was  long  told  in  Wales  how  the  brave 
old  man  lifted  his  hands,  nor  once  stirred 
them,  amid  the  flames. 

Guy  heard  the  crash  of  powder. 

Then  he  ventured  to  look ;  but  still  the 
intrepid  hands  were  lifted. 

A  groan  of  horror  and  pity  burst  from 
the  crowd.  "  Put  fire  !  set  to  fire  !  "  yelled 
the  sheriff.  They  did  not  have  time  to  obey 
him ;  a  bill  hook,  wielded  by  a  hand  too 
merciful  to  falter,  caught  the  spring  sun- 
shine on  its  edge  as  it  swang ;  the  gray  head 
sank,  and  there  was  no  more  need  for  cour- 
age or  for  pity.  The  man  with  the  bill  flung 
it  down  and  sobbed.  Sick  at  heart,  Guy 
crawled  away.  He  sat  down  in  the  shadow 
of  the  gateway  and  abandoned  himself  to  his 
grief. 

A  hand  was  laid  lightly  on  his  arm,  but 
not  even  when  he  saw  the  white  face  and 


138  The  Dilemma  of 

the  woeful,  tearless  eyes  could  he  realize 
that  Marg-aret  had  come  to  him. 

"He  hath  sent  me,"  she  said;  "Oh,  God 
forgive  you,  Guy,  I  am  his  last  gift  to  you ! " 

As  the  years  dulled  emotion  I  suppose 
that  Marg-aret  came  to  forgive  her  husband 
—  even,  perhaps,  to  understand  his  con- 
duct; but  whenever  I  look  at  the  picture 
and  the  smile  that  has  so  little  mirth,  so 
deep  an  experience,  I  query  in  my  own 
mind:  Did  Guy  ever  decide  if  he  acted 
rig-ht,  or  was  he  only  sure  that  as  grim  a 
perplexity  would  have  awaited  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  dilemma? 

But  our  honest  Martin  always  maintained 
that  my  lord  did  act  fair  and  honest,  since 
having-  passed  his  word  he  kept  it.  "Like 
I  kept  mine  to  the  lady  Marg-aret,"  said 
Martin.  "And  sure  'twas  a  rig-ht  comfort 
that  my  lord  was  able  to  give  the  knave 
Constantine  his  deserts  and  he  died  in 
prison." 

Martin,  be  it  understood,  was  a  reformed 
man  at  this  speaking-.  The  narrative  tells 
naively  that  so  great  was  the  effect  of  Fer- 
rars's  death  on  him  "that  he  did  straig-ht 


Sir  Guy  the  Neuter.  139 

forsake  his  evil  courses,  and  sailing-  over 
seas,  he  commenced  buccaneer  with  Sir 
Peter  Carew." 

His  reformed  ways  prospered  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  was  knighted  by  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth, and,  retiring-  on  the  spoils  of  his 
reformation,  became  a  model  country  gen- 
tleman and  one  of  the  soundest  and  most 
regular  sleepers  of  the  parish  church. 

I  fancy  if  Lord  Ellesmerewent  to  church 
he  did  not  sleep.  I  imagine  him  smiling  as 
the  crude  commonplace  dragged  along,  see- 
ing perhaps  the  kind,  strong,  childlike  face 
of  another  preacher,  drearily  pondering  on 
that  never  ending  dilemma. 

But  little  Samuel  grew  up  happily ;  and 
never  knew  why  sometimes  his  benefactor's 
hand  was  laid  so  tenderly  on  his  head  and 
Lord  Ellesmere  sighed. 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

* 

'Tis  a  poor  thing,  but  mine  own. — Shakespeare. 
T'AOROTHY  LAWRENCE,  looking  one 
1  J  summer  day  from  the  veranda  of  "the 
big  house, "saw  the  ferry  toiling'  across  the 
Black  river.  The  ferryman  paddled  slowly, 
for  the  current  is  swift.  The  passengers 
were  a  woman  and  boy,  both  black,  in  a 
white-covered  "mover's  wagon." 

They  had  already  reached  the  shore  when 
the  oxen  became  frightened,  with  the  stu- 
pid strong  fright  of  their  kind ;  and  a  clamor 
of  shouts,  a  vast  waving  of  the  paddle,  and 
backing  and  stumbling  of  the  oxen  ended  in 
the  wagon's  being  dumped  in  the  river. 

Here  the  woman  emerged  from  the  wag- 
on. Coolly  dropping  her  dress  skirt  on 
the  seat,  she  jumped  into  the  water  after 
the  oxen.  Waist  high  in  the  green  waves, 
she  swung  her  whip  and  shouted  at  the 

143 


144      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

brutes  exactly  as  if  on  dry  land,  finally  driv- 
ing1 them  in  good  order  up  the  bank.  Then 
she  disappeared  behind  the  wagon,  to 
emerge  again,  dry  and  clad. 

"There  is  a  sensible  darky!"  thought 
Dorothy,  who  by  this  time  was  making 
ready  to  go  to  the  store  for  her  husband. 
The  store  was  only  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  house,  but  Colonel  Lawrence  liked  to 
have  his  wife  come  toward  supper  time  and 
walk  home  with  him;  after  ten  years  of 
married  life,  the  Lawrences  were  still  in 
love  with  each  other.  As  Dorothy  strolled 
under  the  shade  of  the  row  of  gum  trees, 
she  looked  at  the  wagon,  which  stood  by  it- 
self, with  the  oxen  loose  and  the  pole  on  the 
ground.  The  oxen  were  fat,  well-condi- 
tioned beasts.  The  wagon  had  a  new  top 
and  was  painted  a  bright  red  of  an  uneven 
gloss,  that,  with  the  absence  of  decorating 
hairlines  and  such  bedizenments,  suggested 
the  home  artist.  A  large  Arkansas  hound 
slept  under  the  wagon  bed.  Inside,  one 
could  see  the  swelling  outlines  of  a  feather 
bed,  sacked  in  burlap,  the  corner  of  a  cov- 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      145 

ered  sewing-  machine,  and  a  cooking  stove. 
Plainly,  this  was  a  mover  of  means. 

The  little  boy  was  playing  near  the  wag- 
on. He  might  be  nine  years  old,  a  little 
brown  creature  whose  cheeks  dimpled  con- 
tinually. All  the  buttons  were  on  his  shirt, 
and  his  short  trousers  were  new  and  clean. 

The  woman  had  walked  toward  the  store. 
Colonel  Lawrence  came  down  the  steps  and 
she  addressed  him.  He  beckoned  to  his 
wife  to  join  him,  which  she  did,  perceiving 
that  here  was  one  of  the  times  that  he 
preferred  facing  in  company.  She  could 
see  that  he  was  listening  to  a  tale  of  wrong, 
for  he  nodded  his  head  and  pulled  at  his 
black  moustache,  frowning  at  intervals,  and 
murmured:  "Hmn!  hmn!"  in  the  vague 
and  non-committal  sympathy  of  the  man 
who  must  listen  to  the  complaints  of  many. 

"So  Jake  Willis  is  your  husband,"  were 
the  first  words  that  Dorothy  heard,  "and 
you  parted " 

"No,  sah,"  eagerly  interrupted  the  wom- 
an, "we  ain't  done  pahted.  He  run  away 
wid  Lize  Ma'y  Hunter.  I  never  did  give 
nare  consent,  sah!" 


146      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

The  colonel  recognized  the  distinction  — 
a  "parting,"  among  the  negroes,  being  a 
mutual  ceremony.  There  are  negotiations 
and  solemn  division  of  the  property  and  a 
semi-legal  severance  of  the  marriage  bonds. 

"I  see,"  said  Colonel  Lawrence;  "you 
didn't  agree.  And  you  want  him  back?  " 

"Dat's  it,  boss — yes,  sah;  Jake,  he  did 
prommus  me  solemn,  las'  time,  he  won't 
never  run  'way  agin.  Now,  sah,  will  you 
please  kin'ly  have  Jake  turn  dat  nigger 
loose  an'  come  off  back  wid  me,  or  let  me 
go  'longer  him,  jes'  what  he  wantster;  I 
ain't  aimin'  to  be  ha'sh  wid  Jake !  He  kin 
have  his  ruthers  consarnin'  dat  p'int!" 

While  the  woman  talked  —  she  spoke  in  a 
low,  mellow  voice,  with  neither  hurry  nor 
excitement  in  the  liquid  notes  —  Dorothy 
was  looking  her  over.  There  was  some- 
thing to  look  over,  it  may  be  said,  since  the 
deserted  wife  was  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches 
in  height,  and,  though  not  stout,  of  a  square 
and  ample  build.  She  had  not  the  fatal  gift 
of  beauty,  being  of  the  genuine  coal-black, 
flat-nosed,  Nubian  type  of  negro,  and  hav- 
ing cross-eyes  to  the  bargain;  but  there 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      147 

was  something-  attractive  in  her  exceptional 
tidiness  of  dress  and  in  the  anxious  good 
humor  of  her  countenance,  and  something 
almost  graceful  in  her  perfect  command  of 
every  muscle  as  she  moved. 

"She  is  not  quite  the  ordinary  darky," 
thought  Dorothy. 

The  colonel  chewed  the  ends  of  his  mous- 
tache and  frowned,  signs  of  perplexity  rec- 
ognized by  his  wife. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mrs.  Willis,"  said  he,  "I 
don't  know  much  about  Jake;  he  came  here 
with  a  woman  that  he  calls  his  wife,  repre- 
senting that  they  were  just  married,  and 
took  seventy-five  acres  on  the  yon  side  of 
the  creek.  I  don't  know  when  he  will  be 
down  to  the  store." 

"Dat  's  all  right,  sah;  I  seen  Jake  a-set- 
tin*  on  de  steps  of  de  sto',  when  I  come 
'cross  de  river." 

"You  say  this  girl  isn't  his  wife  ?"  The 
colonel  saw  he  could  not  postpone  the  ques- 
tion, and  braced  himself  with  an  audible 
sigh. 

"Dat  she  ain't,  sah,"  said  the  woman; 
"  she  ben  Sol  Hunter's  wife,  but  he  died  up. 


148      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

She  got  him  to  paht  from  his  wife,  she  done 
so ;  and  she  done  make  her  brags  dat  she 
wud  git  Jake  'way  from  me  'fo'  Christmas. 
She  sayed  as  how  Jake  done  runned  away 
afo',  and  he  knowed  de  way ! " 

"Oh,  he  ran  away  before,  did  he  ?" 
"  Yes,  sah ;  it  ben  like  dis :  we-uns  got 
a  fyarm  down  Memphis  way,  nigh  'bout 
paid  fo';  and,  come  time  fo'  de  morgige, 
we  got  de  money  tergedder.  Jedge  Coving- 
ton,  he  lent  us  hunderd  dollars,  an'  we  got 
de  restis  —  dat 's  hunderd  an'  forty-two, 
'cause  I  did  make  dat  up  wid  de  crap  an' 
de  aigs  and  de  claybank  colt  we  sole.  An' 
I  ben  a  plum'  idjit  an'  let  Jake  fetch  de 
money  from  de  jedge  —  two  hunderd  an' 
forty-two  dolla's,  sah  —  and  Jake,  he  did 
feel  so  peart  and  gaily  dat  he  jest  ben 
obleeged,  it  look  like,  to  stop  at  de  cross- 
roads sto'  fo'  to  git  a  drink ;  and  dar  he  met 
up  wid  two  wicked  niggers  from  a  boat,  an' 
dey  got  him  to  playin'  of  craps.  Well,  sah, 
'fo'  dat  fool  Jake  cud  bat  his  eye,  'most,  dem 
niggers  got  all  his  money  plumb  'way  from 
him.  So  Jake,  he  does  be  mighty  tender- 
hairted,  and  he  cudn't  bear  t'  come  home 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      149 

to  all  dat  sorrer  an'  trouble,  and  he  jest 
natchelly  lit  right  out  wid  dem  same  dar- 
kies fo'  de  cotton  boat.  But  fust  he  done 
sole  his  mule,  an'  dat  how  come  I  got  wuM 
from  him.  I  ben  nigh  deestractid,  sarchin' 
fo'  him  far  an'  near ! " 

"You  poor  thing-!  what  did  you  do?"  said 
Dorothy,  in  a  gentle  voice,  at  the  sound  of 
which  the  muscles  about  the  black  wom- 
an's mouth  twitched  a  little. 

"T'ank  ye,  ma'am,"  she  said;  "yes, 
ma'am,  I  p'intedly  did  have  a  rough  time, 
dat  fall.  De  jedge  got  so  mad  at  Jake  usin' 
of  him  dat  mean,  not  knowin'  how  chicken- 
hairtid  Jake  ben,  an'  how  he  jest  cudn't 
bear  nohow  to  see  folkses  suffer — so  de 
jedge,  not  knowin',  wudn't  holp  me;  an'  de 
man  wid  de  morgige,  he  come  down  on  me 
de  'p'inted  time,  an'  looked  like  I  hadn't  no 
ways  to  turn.  But  I  did  reason  wid  dat  man, 
an'  I  got  him  to  take  a  new  morgige  'stiddier 
dat  ole  one,  if  I  wud  pay  fo'  hunderd  dolla's 
'stiddier  two  hunderd  an'  fo'ty ;  an'  den  he 
let  me  off,  an'  I  did  stay  right  along  at  my 
own  place,  a-waitin'  on  Jake,  'cause  I  knowed 
he  wud  come  back  some  day.  And  I  got  a 


150      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

mighty  good  crap  nex'  year,  an'  I  made  out 
wid  de  pickin'  an'  de  stock;  an'  so  I  paid 
off  most  de  morgige  an'  all  er  de  j edge's 
money.  I  ben  sho'  all  'long  dat  Jake  be 
comin'  back ;  an'  one  day,  'long  'bout  sun- 
down, I  seen  a  cullud  man  a-comin'  down  de 
lane  mighty  slow  and  tucker ed-out  like. 
Dat  ar  ben  Jake.  He  suttinly  did  look  dis- 
tressid,  w'arin'  de  ve'y  selfsame  clo'es  he 
done  got  on  his  back  when  he  lit  out,  an' 
kinder  puny-lookin'  an'  coughin'  like  he  got 
de  breas'  complaint.  He  says:  *  Doesn't 
ye  know  me,  Persis?'  Den  he  cudn't  speak 
fo'  de  coughin' ;  and  me,  I " 

She  stopped  with  a  gulp ;  so  unlike  the 
ordinary  African  fashion  of  manifesting 
emotion  was  her  subdued  self-restraint, 
that  it  took  the  Lawrences  a  moment  to 
realize  that  she  was  overcome  by  the  recol- 
lection of  the  meeting. 

"I  suttinly  did  feel  good,  dat  time,  to  git 
Jake  back.  I  got  him  inter  de  house,  an' 
got  a  cup  of  coffee  down  him,  an'  kinder 
spi'ted  him  up;  so  den  he  tole  me  how  he 
ben  in  Memphis,  dat  great  city,  an'  had  a 
turrible  hard  time,  an'  he  seen  a  man — dat 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      151 

ben  Unk'  Jerusalem  Coffin — come  from  we- 
all's  way,  an'  he  axed  him  to  lend  him  some 
change,  'cause  he  didn't  know  whar  to  turn 
fo'  a  bite  er  bread  or  a  bite  er  po'k — he  got 
down  so  bad  like  dat !  And  Unk'  Jerusalem, 
he  bu'st  out  laffin'  an'  tole  him  it  ben  right 
funny  fo'  a  man  ownin'  a  good  farm  to  be 
gwine  hungry  dat-a-way !  An'  wid  dat, 
Jake  got  excited  an'  axed  him  questins  an' 
borried  what  he  cud,  an'  come  right  spang 
home  by  de  nex'  boat.  Well,  ayfter  dat, 
we-all  paid  de  res'  er  de  morgige  an'  got 
'long  right  good,  an'  sent  de  boy — dat  ben 
Jake's  boy,  ye  know,  sah " 

"He  was  a  widower,  then,  when  you 
married  him?" 

"  Yes,  sah ;  suttinly,  sah.  Jake's  fust 
wife  ben  Sist'  Viney  Griffin ;  belong  to  we- 
all's  chu'ch,  a  right  good  woman,  dat  made 
de  bes'  kind  er  light  bread.  She  died  up 
an'  lef  Jake  wid  de  baby,  de  onlies'  chile 
dey  got,  him  risin'  of  two.  Looked  like 
dey  didn't  have  nobuddy  to  do  fo'  dem,  so  I 
jes'  taken  de  chile  to  my  own  place.  I  ben 
doin'  well,  an'  dey  ben  mighty  po'.  Dat 
how  come  I  taken  up  wid  Jake  in  de  fust 


152      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

place  ;  I  got  sorter  wonted  to  doin'  fo'  him, 
'cause  he  'd  be  comin'  to  see  de  baby,  an'  I 
wud  men'  him  up — him  havin'  nobuddy. 
An'  we  did  get  'long-  right  well  tell  dat  'ar 
Lize  Ma'y,  she  sot  'er  eyes  on  my  Jake  an' 
made  her  brags  she  ben  gwine  t'  marry 
him  afo'  nex'  Christina's.  An'  she  kep'  up 
a-laffin'  an'  a-laffin';  an'  ever'  festival  Jake 
done  go  ter,  dar  ben  dat  Lize  Ma'y  a-laffin' 
at  him  !  Dat  made  him  kinder  curi's  an' 
cravin'  fo'  to  know  what  fo'  she  keep  up 
dat  laffin' ;  men  pussons  is  dat  way — dey 
sots  deir  min's  on  mo'  fool  t'ings  dan  de 
women ;  I  had  de  crap  to  look  ayfter,  an' 
de  keerin'  fo'  de  stock  an'  de  cookin',  an'  a 
power  er  t'ings  to  keep  me  busy.  'Sides,  I 
cudn't  leave  de  chile  by  his  lone,  to  go  to 
festivals;  but  I  cudn't  enjure  to  'prive  Jake 
er  takin'  his  time  an'  his  pleasure.  So  he 
did  go,  an'  he  met  up  wid  her  ever'  time ; 
an'  bymeby  he  got  to  axin'  of  her  'bout  de 
laffin',  an'  bymeby  agin  she  didn't  laff  no 
mo',  an'  dat  how  come  all  de  trouble.  One 
day,  he  lef  me  in  the  mo'nin',  makin'  out 
like  he  ben  gwine  to  take  a  load  er  wood  to 
de  jedge ;  an'  I  ain't  seen  him  tell  dis  day. 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      153 

But  a  man  come  an'  showed  me  a  paper  dat 
he  sayed  ben  sign  by  me;  an'  dat  like  'miff, 
seein'  Jake  got  me  to  sign  my  name  to  whut 
he  did  call  jest  a  lettin'  him  sell  de  bit  of 
wood.  An'  he  say,  dat  man,  dat  I  done  sign 
'way  de  hull  plum'  place,  an'  dat  Jake  got 
de  money " 

Husband  and  wife  exchanged  glances, 
both  recalling  that  Jake  had  come  to  the 
Black  river  with  a  most  surprising  pleni- 
tude of  ready  money. 

"Well,  sah,"  she  continued,  "I  wen'  to 
de  jedge;  but  he  did  say  as  howl  done  sign 
de  paper,  an'  de  place  ben  Jake's  fo'  to  sell, 
an'  I  cudn't  do  nuffin'.  An'  I  went  to  ax 
him  to  cotch  Jake  fo'  me,  an'  git  him  back; 
but  he  sayed  dat  he  cudn't  fin'  him.  An' 
den  I  sole  de  truck  an'  de  stock,  an'  pack 
up  what  I  cudn't  sell,  an'  come  a-sarchin' 
fo'  Jake ;  'cause  I  knowed  't  didn't  ben  no 
good  waitin'  on  him,  'cause  dar  didn't  ben 
nuffin'  fo'  him  to  come  back  ter  !  I  ben 
trackin'  him  ever  since ;  but  I  got  him 
now,  sho'." 

She  smiled ;  the  inscrutable  part  of  the 
whole  business  was  that  she  should  be  so 


154      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

confident  that  it  would  be  concluded  in  her 
favor,  if  once  she  were  face  to  face  with  the 
fugitives. 

"  I  'lows,"  she  said,  "  Jake  done  fool  away 
a  heap  er  dat  money ;  but  he  kain't  of  got 
shet  er  it  all.  We  kin  make  mo' " 

Here  she  stopped  and  stared  down  the 
winding  road  from  the  forest. 

Along  the  sun-dappled  roadway,  rattling 
and  jingling,  came  a  smart  new  wagon, 
drawn  by  two  young  horses  of  mettle 
enough  to  toss  their  heads  and  shy  at  pools 
of  water  here  and  there.  The  front  seat 
of  the  wagon  was  filled  by  the  voluminous 
white  draperies  of  the  only  occupant,  a 
handsome  yellow  girl,  whose  eyes  rolled 
under  an  astonishing  flower  pot  of  a  hat, 
and  whose  white  gown  was  decked  with  a 
motley  flutter  of  ribbons.  She  glittered 
with  plated  jewelry  and  red  and  green  and 
yellow  glass  and  Arkansas  diamonds. 

Pompously  she  held  herself  erect,  and 
tossed  her  ringleted  head  at  the  gaping 
crowd  of  darkies. 

"Heabenly  name!  dat  sho'  de  colts," 
muttered  the  wife ;  "  look  a'  de  way  dat  fool 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      155 

nigger  dribe — wabble  f'om  one  side  er  de 
road  to  de  udder,  like  a  goose  a-runnin'. 
Lize  Ma'y,  I  done  come  fo'  Jake." 

The  splendidly  attired  one  stopped  and 
looked  at  the  old  wife  standing  in  the  dusty 
road  in  her  homely  gown. 

At  first,  she  winced  ;  but  in  a  second,  re- 
covering herself,  she  tossed  her  head  in 
vast  scorn. 

"Go  'long,  nigger,  then,"  she  said,  dis- 
tinctly ;  "  you  wicked  woman,  ain't  you 
'shamed  to  come  runnin'  ayfter  my  hus- 
band ?  You'  a  heap  too  old  to  be  actin'  so 
scandilous  ! " 

Persis  only  gasped,  "You'  husband?" 
and  stared  at  her  as  a  fish  stares,  jerked 
out  into  the  maddening  air. 

Some  intention  that  Lize  Ma'y  had  of 
stopping  at  the  store  she  must  have  quickly 
abandoned,  for  she  lashed  the  horses. 

"Stop!"  thundered  Lawrence;  not  that 
he  was  excited,  but  to  be  heard  above  her 
wheels  and  the  laughter  of  the  idlers. 

She  made  as  if  she  did  not  hear  ;  but  he 
waved  his  arm  at  her,  and  she  had  not  the 
audacity  to  sail  past  him,  the  white  man. 


156      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

Sullenly  she  drew  in  her  horses ;  but  then, 
as  if  by  the  switching*  away  of  a  curtain, 
her  face  was  revealed,  all  coy  smiles,  and 
she  said : 

"  Was  you  seekin'  anything,  sah  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 
Why  did  you  inveigle  that  poor  woman's 
husband  away  from  her  ?  " 

"  Laws,  sah,  she  does  be  po'  an'  old,  but 
that  ain't  my  fault ;  I  kain't  holp  'er  bein' 
born  so  long  befo'  me — that  ben  the  Lord's 
will  an'  not  mine.  An'  I  does  hate  to  say  it 
'bout  'er,  but  she  is  the  one  takin'  away 
husban's,  for  she  is  aimin'  to  take  away 
mine.  She  never  was  Jake's  wife — no,  sah, 
never;  an'  when  he  met  up  with  me,  he  got 
'shamed  of  himself,  an'  he  lef  his  wicked- 
ness an'  married  me.  An'  then  she  threat- 
ened his  life,  an'  so  we  come  'way  down 
here." 

This  was  said  with  a  touching  mien  of 
modesty  that  had  like  to  have  impressed 
the  man  who  listened,  but  his  wife  laughed. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  Jake's  wife, 
and  not  this  one  ?  " 

"Yes,  sah  —  yes'm.    I  ben  married  by 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      157 

Squire  Nixon,  an'  I  got  de  writing's  correct. 
Ax  'er  who  married  'er  to  Jake." 

"  It  ben  a  minister,  an'  he  is  daid  !  "  said 
Persis,  frowning-. 

"  But  you  is  sho'  got  some  writings  'bout 
it,  to  show?"  said  Lize  Ma'y,  insolently 
gentle. 

"You  knows  I  ain't;  you  knows  Jake 
stole  de  stockin'  wid  de  money  whar  dey 
ben  ! "  said  Persis,  between  her  teeth,  still 
staring  in  the  same  daze. 

"  I  like  for  to  go  to  my  husband,  if  you 
please,  sah,"  said  Lize  Ma'y,  with  much 
suavity;  "I  ain't  'customed  t'  be  holdin' 
talk  with  sich  pussons.  I  don't  aim  to  give 
'er  no  bad  talk,  but  I  ask  'er  jest  to  leave 
us  'lone  an'  quit  interferin'  with  married 
folks.  'Tain't  decent." 

She  inclined  her  bedecked  head  to  the 
colonel  and  his  wife,  and  was  for  making 
off  again.  Again  the  colonel  stopped  her. 

"  Hold  a  minute  !  "  said  he — his  wife  had 
whispered  in  his  ear;  "  I  want  to  hear  what 
Jake  has  to  say  for  himself,  before  you  talk 
it  over  together.  Hi !  you  Jim,  run  up  and 
tell  Jake  to  come  over  here  !  " 


158      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

There  was  a  pause  that  the  discarded 
wife  filled  up  by  going  over  to  the  little 
boy.  She  was  visibly  agitated.  "You' 
daddy  a-comin',  Jakey,"  she  said.  "Is  you 
got  you'  face  clean?  Make  haste  an'  git 
you'  new  cap  on!" 

The  erring  Jake,  when  he  appeared,  es- 
corted by  no  less  than  six  interested  black 
brethren,  showed  a  mild,  rather  attractive 
yellow  face  and  a  smart  new  suit  of  clothes 
of  the  gay  plaids  that  lie  in  heaps  on  the 
counters  of  "all-sort  stores  "  in  the  south. 
A  flimsy  red  silk  handkerchief  stood  in  a 
triangle  out  of  one  pocket.  He  drew  it 
forth,  wiped  his  face  and  grinned  feebly, 
first  at  one  claimant  and  then  at  the  other. 

"I  done  come  fo'  ye,  Jake,"  said  Persis,  in 
a  quiet  way. 

Lize  Ma'y  writhed  her  shapely  head  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  giggling: 

"  Gunnel  is  cravin'  to  know  if  you  is  my 
husban'  or  hers,  Jake." 

Before  Jake  answered,  he  hopped  nimbly 
into  the  wagon.  Then  he  said : 

"I  reckon  I  belongs  to  Lize  Ma'y." 

"But  this  woman  here  says  you  married 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      159 

her  first,"  objected  the  colonel;  "hold  those 
horses  still,  will  you,  Jake?" 

"Does  be  powerful  skeery  and  restive," 
muttered  Jake,  while  he  drew  in  the  reins 
with  a  wide  crooking- of  his  elbows  and  loud 
"Huh!  quit  you'  funnin'!"  and  hissing- 
sounds  between  his  teeth. 

"I  nev'  did  marry  her  'tall,"  said  he, 
"nev'  in  this  worl';  jes'  ta'en  up  wid  her, 
an'  dat  's  all— ain't  it,  Lize  Ma'y?" 

"Dat  's  a  lie!"  said  Persis. 

"Who  knows  that  you  were  married  up 
in  Tennessee?  "  Dorothy  struck  in. 

To  her  surprise,  Persis's  face  felL 

"I  done  tole  de  judge  dat,  an'  he  sayed 
whar  did  I  ben  mah'ied,  'cause  it  ben  afo' 
we-uns  did  move  to  Tennessee ;  an'  he  sayed 
did  I  got  are  writin's,  an'  I  didn't,  'cause 
Jake  stole  dem ;  an'  he  sayed  I  cudn't  prove 
it.  But  I  don't  guess  Jake  wud  far  up  dem 
papers  dat  we  allus  did  keep  so  keerfuL" 

Lize  Ma'y 's  muttered  chorus  of  scorn  rose 
into  a  groan: 

"Oh,  jes'  hark  to  the  lies  of  her!  She 
knows  there  ain't  no  papers!" 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  colonel;  "but,  if 


160      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

you  have  no  proof  of  the  marriage,  I  really 
can't  interfere,  under  the  circumstances." 

"T'ank  you,  sir,"  said  Lize  Ma'y;  "but 
one  t'ing  mo' :  Jake  an'  me,  we  is  right 
willin'  to  take  little  Jakey  home  an'  keer  fo' 
him." 

"Yes,  sah — suttinly,  sah;  we  is,  fo'  a 
fac'I"  Jake  agreed,  eagerly,  with  a  look  at 
the  boy.  "Come  on  by,  Jakey;  ain't  ye 
gwine  speak  to  dad?" 

But  Jakey,  though  he  grinned  respons- 
ively,  held  back,  saying: 

"Mummer,  too?" 

For  the  first  time,  Jake  looked  uncomfort- 
able ;  he  stole  a  glance  at  the  ugly  sad  face 
of  the  woman  standing  in  the  dust,  and  then 
winced  at  some  unseen  prod  from  the  girl 
by  his  side  and  tried  to  pass  it  off  with  a 
laugh. 

"Come  on,"  said  Lize  Ma'y,  "the  chile 
belongs  to  you;  she  cayn't  claim  him." 

"I  don't  like  for  to  toll  him  'way  from 
'er,"  muttered  Jake;  "but  if  ye  want  to  git 
shet  er  him,  Persis,  I  are  right  willin' " 

The  woman's  face  quivered  a  little. 

"No,"  said  she,  quietly,  "I  don't."     At 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      161 

the  same  time,  she  suddenly  flung-  both  her 
arms  about  the  small  body  pressed  among 
her  skirts,  and  glared  at  Lize  Ma'y,  who 
smiled  back. 

"You  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  'bout  it," 
was  the  taunt  in  which  Lize  Ma'y  expressed 
both  hate  and  triumph;  "he  ain't  no  kin  to 
you!" 

Mrs.  Lawrence  came  to  the  rescue  of  her 
perplexed  husband  with  a  calm  feminine 
disregard  of  the  visible  claims  of  the  law  of 
the  land. 

"Jake,  you  go  right  home,"  she  said; 
"you  both  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
selves. We  are  going  to  find  out  about  this. 
You  can  come  back  to-morrow." 

Lize  Ma'y  would  have  spoken,  but  for  her 
companion;  he  read  the  light  in  Dorothy's 
eye  too  shrewdly  for  resistance.  Without 
a  word,  he  hit  the  horses  a  swinging  clip 
with  the  twig  that  served  as  whip,  and  the 
wagon  whirled  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Only  Dorothy  noted  the  tears  slowly 
gather  in  the  deserted  wife's  eyes.  Not  a 
word  did  she  speak.  She  made  a  rude  kind 
of  courtesy  to  the  white  lady,  and,  with  the 


1 62      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

child  still  clinging  to  her  skirts,  she  moved 
away.  They  saw  her  climb  into  the  wagon. 

"Well,  I  am  sorry  for  her,"  said  Dorothy; 
"I  think  she  was  his  wife." 

"There  is  no  telling-,"  said  the  colonel, 
philosophically;  "I  reckon  she  can't  do  any- 
thing if  she  is." 

"Can't  she  go  to  law?" 

"She  couldn't  prove  anything  if  she  did." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  the  law, 
then!"  cried  Dorothy,  with  true  feminine 
logic,  according  to  the  masculine  notion  of  it. 

The  colonel  dismissed  the  matter  from 
his  mind.  Dorothy  was  less  easily  swayed 
when  her  sympathies  were  moved. 

"I  wonder  if  she  can  wash,"  she  mused 
aloud,  in  the  morning. 

"There,  I  nearly  cut  myself,"  said  the 
colonel,  who  was  shaving  himself,  and  thus 
easily  ruffled.  "Who  can  wash?" 

"Why,  Persis,  of  course — Jake's  wife. 
We  might  have  her  do  our  extra  washing 
this  week,  and  then  she  could  stay  on  and 
have  a  chance  to  win  back  Jake." 

"She  is  more  likely  to  lose  the  child — 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      163 

Lize  Ma'y  means  business;  and  she  has  no 
legal  claim.'* 

"Isn't  there  any  court  she  could  g-o  to?" 

"Well,  hardly." 

"I  think  it  a  very  great  shame,  Phil;  and 
I  am  going  to  talk  to  that  Jake." 

Mrs.  Lawrence  was  in  earnest.  The  col- 
onel laughed,  but  he  drove  her  to  Jake's  in 
the  cool  of  the  morning-,  just  the  same. 

They  were  both  surprised  to  find,  in 
front  of  the  house,  a  white-covered  mover's 
wagon;  and  their  surprise  deepened  and 
thrilled  into  amaze  when  a  tall  woman  put 
her  head  out  of  the  door.  The  woman  was 
Persis.  At  the  same  moment,  Jake's  slim 
figure  and  gentle  smile  drifted  into  view 
from  around  the  wood  pile. 

He  smiled  sheepishly  at  the  colonel's  sal- 
utation. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  he;  "dat  Persis  fo' 
sho',  boss !  "You  see,"  he  rubbed  his  hands 
softly  together,  "she  come  by  right  early, 
befo'  sun-up,  'most.  I  ben  kinder  upset  by 
dat  'ar  Lize  Ma'y,  onyhow,  an'  I  ben  studyin' 
'bout  t'ings.  Den  up  comes  Persis  an'  gits 
out  befo'  you  cud  bat  you'  eye,  and  is  gwine 


164      The  Court  of  Last  Resort. 

in  de  house,  an'  all  she  says  ben:  'I  done 
come  fo'  my  Jake/  says  she ;  an'  dat  'ar  fool 
yaller  gell,  she  ben  fixin'  to  laff  an'  laff. 
Persis,  she  nev'  did  git  mad — jes'  says:  'I 
ben  to  de  cunnel,  an'  I  ben  to  de  jedge,  an' 
no  redressance  nur  holp,  an'  I  taken  it  inter 
my  own  ban's,  Lize  Ma'y,'  says  she;  an' 
'clare  if  dat  triflin'  Lize  Ma'y  didn't  bu'st 
out  laffin'  so  ye  cud  hear  'er  clear  an'  across 
de  creek.  An'  den  Persis,.  she  nev'  did 
pyart  lips  wid  'er  no  more — jes'  failed  on 
'er  an'  pulled  out  a  big  pawpaw  switch  an' 
guv  'er  de  bud  most  outrigeous.  Yes,  sah, 
she  did  lick  dat  gell  twell  she  squealed  an' 
hollered  an'  run  outen  de  house,  an'  den  she 
made  me  run  fotch  all  'er  clo'es  an'  fling 
dem  ayfter  'er." 

"But  didn't  you  interfere?  "  said  the  col- 
onel, with  a  strong  desire  to  laugh. 

Jake  rolled  his  mild  eyes. 

"I  don't  reckon  you  ev'  did  see  Persis 
excited,"  answered  he,  solemnly;  "Per- 
sis, she  don'  sull  nor  she  don'  r'ar  on  ye, 
but  she  's  terrible  hefty  in  her  arms !  No, 
sah;  I  doesn't  'low  to  bunch  rags  wid  dat 
nigger,  if  I  kin  holp  it!" 


The  Court  of  Last  Resort.      165 

"But  you  were  mighty  easy  with  her  yes- 
terday!" 

"Den  I  ben  in  de  wagon,  sah;  dat  'ar 
does  make  a  heap  o'  differ." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Why,  I  stan's  mighty  still  an'  reasons 
wid  Persis,  an'  begs  'er  not  to  hu't  Lize 
Ma'y  too  hyard ;  and  den  I  goes  in,  an'  Per- 
sis done  make  me  some  er  de  bestis  coffee 
an'  corn  bread." 

At  this  moment,  Persis  put  her  head  out 
of  the  door,  and  both  man  and  woman 
grinned. 

"Well,  you  got  him  back,  didn't  you?" 
said  Dorothy. 

"In  co'se,"  Persis  replied;  "I  knowed  I 
cud  git  Jake  back,  if  I  jest  got  a  little  place 
to  argy  wid  him  in!" 

"I  was  mistaken,"  the  colonel  explained 
to  his  wife ;  "there  was  still  a  resource,  and 
Persis  appealed  to  the  court  of  last  resort." 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  his  net, 

Shall  he  pass  and  we  forget? 
******* 

Love  is  hurt  by  jar  and  fret, 
Love  becomes  a  vague  regret, 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet, 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love,  for  we  forget ! 
Ah    no!  no!  — Tennyson. 

A  BBYLONIA  EDDINGS,  wife  to  the 
JL~\.  Reverend  Eli  Edding-s,  was  always 
tired  of  a  Monday  afternoon;  but  never 
had  she  been  so  exhausted,  soul  and  body, 
as  she  was  one  Monday  in  March.  She 
stood  in  a  tired  woman's  attitude,  her 
knuckles  on  her  hips,  and  gazed  wearily 
about  the  kitchen.  "Just  slicked  up!" 
sighed  Abbylonia.  "Well,  it  's  the  best  I 
can  do,  with  this  back." 


170    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

Yet  the  ordinary  eye  would  have  reported 
the  room  miraculously  neat,  from  the  big- 
dresser  to  the  glistening-  kitchen  stove.  But 
the  eye  of  Abbylonia  Eddings  was  no  or- 
dinary eye.  She  had  more  ambition  than 
health,  and  in  spite  of  eking-  out  the  latter 
with  that  which  the  New  Eng-landers  name 
"faculty,"  and  we  in  Arkansas  call  by  no 
special  name,  but  admire  as  sincerely,  she 
at  times  strained  her  nerves  to  the  tearing- 
point. 

"Abby,"  her  mother-in-law,  the  widow 
Edding-s,  once  said  to  her — "Abby,  you 
had  ought  to  pray  to  be  more  trifling!  " 

"I  '11  die  sooner,"  replied  Abby,  vehe- 
mently. "Do  you  want  me  to  sink  to  the 
level  of  these  people  around  me?  I  can 
work,  whether  I  'm  tired  or  rested.  There 
wouldn't  be  much  done  if  I  only  worked 
when  I  was  rested." 

"But  you  're  working  on  your  nerves, 
Abby,"  the  widow  ventured,  "and  they 
won't  last  forever." 

"I  reckon  they  '11  last  my  time,"  said 
Abby. 

The  widow  shook  her  head  and  wiped 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     171 

away  an  unobtrusive  tear.  She  was  a 
woman  of  a  gentle  and  plaintive  turn,  who 
said  little,  but  wept  frequently  and  at 
length.  Abby  herself  seldom  wept.  Per- 
haps it  were  better  for  her  had  she  thus 
washed  the  bitterness  out  of  her  heart. 
She  did  not  shed  any  tears  to-day,  although 
she  was  crushed  under  the  leaden  misery 
of  her  anxieties  and  her  physical  exhaus- 
tion. She  looked,  dry-eyed,  out  of  the  win- 
dow—  not  to  see  the  street,  but  simply 
because  the  window  happened  to  be  in  front 
of  her  eyes  —  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
mother-in-law's  black  mohair  skirts  brush- 
ing past  her  gate.  "There  comes  maw," 
she  said,  "because  I  don't  feel  like  seeing  a 
mortal  creature!  Well,  I  don't  care.  I'd 
like  maw  to  remember  me  kindly."  The 
last  thought  summoned  a  flicker  of  a  smile 
to  her  face  as  she  opened  the  door. 

The  widow  Eddings  lived  down  the 
street,  in  her  own  house,  which  her  son 
Eli  had  bought  for  her.  He  had  selected 
this  little  village  because  Hattie,  Mrs.  Edd- 
ings's  daughter,  lived  there,  being  married 
to  one  of  the  best  tempered  and  most  un- 


172    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

successful  business  men  in  the  state  of 
Arkansas.  Eli  had  loaned  him  money  twice 
(although  Abby  knew  it  would  be  lost), 
and  now  had  hit  upon  the  expedient  of 
yoking-  him  to  a  shrewd  partner,  who  should 
manage  the  business,  while  Bud  Slater 
might  entertain  the  customers. 

The  widow  came  in  gingerly,  on  tip-toe. 
"  Dreadful  muddy,"  said  she ;  "  and  I  'lowed 
'twas  only  shoe-mouth  deep,  and  come  off 
without  my  rubbers.  I  had  to  come  most 
of  the  crossing  on  the  railroad;  and  I  was 
scared  to  death  lest  a  train  should  come  up 
behind,  kinder  quiet  like,  whilst  I  ben  so 
busy  picking  my  way,  and  run  over  me " 

"I  don't  think  there  's  much  danger  of 
a  train  of  cyars  being  quiet^  maw,"  said 
Abby,  who  was  wiping  off  the  widow's 
shoes. 

"Well,  they  do  make  a  heap  of  noise  in 
the  street.  But  I  didn't  aim  to  contrairy 
you,  Abby ;  I  reckon  you  know  best,  read- 
ing so  many  books  as  you  do."  The  widow 
sighed.  She  had  a  long,  fair,  plaintive  face 
and  timid  eyes.  There  was  a  scar  over  one 
eyebrow.  She  was  always  carefully  neat  in 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     173 

her  dress,  which  was  black,  not  so  much 
because  she  still  mourned  the  husband  of 
her  youth  (who  used  to  throw  things  at  her) 
as  because  she  esteemed  black  an  economi- 
cal and  useful  habit.  She  continued :  "There 
's  a  dreadful  sight  of  typhoid  fever  in  town. 
I  reckon  it  's  the  mud  puddles.  Do  you 
know  you  got  a  reg'lar  slash  outside  the 
gate?  I  seen  Susy  Nell  playing  outside; 
she  looked  kinder  puny,  I  'lowed.  Maybe 
not." 

Susy  Nell  was  the  Eddings's  only  child. 
Abby-'could  have  explained  her  looks,  but 
she  had  no  mind  for  talk.  The  widow  dis- 
mally continued  to  unpack  her  budget: 
"Say,  Abby  —  I  reckon  I  best  tell  you,  for 
you  're  sure  to  hear  it  —  Eli  ain't  going  to 
git  the  job  of  painting  the  church  pews." 

"  They  didn't  give  it  to  Hobson?  " 

"  That 's  jest  what  they  did.  I  met  Mis' 
Hobson  on  the  street,  and  she  told  me  her- 
self. Right  spiteful  of  her,  too,  I  call  it. 
But  Hain't  right  to  jedge.  Jedge  not,  and 
you  ain't  going  to  be  j  edged,  you  know. 
She  was  with  Sister  Arnott." 

"That's  how  Hobson  got  the  job,"  said 


174    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

Abby.  But  she  showed  none  of  that  in- 
dignation that  the  widow  had  expected. 
"She 's  always  toadying1  Mrs.  Arnott.  And 

anything1  Brother  Arnott  says,  you  know 
» 

"Yes,  the  committee  '11  jest  grease  its 
head  and  swaller  it  whole,"  said  the  widow, 
sadly.  "I  expect  she  talked  him  over. 
What  do  you  think  she  had  in  her  hand, 
Abby?" 

"I  don't  know,  maw."  Abby  spoke  list- 
lessly. 

"It  was  that  dress  pattern  you  told  me 
you  aimed  to  buy." 

"The  blue  mixture  with  the  red  thread 
in  it?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  That  very  piece.  It  was 
sticking  out  of  the  bundle.  And  I  felt  so 
bad  'bout  you  being  disappointed  of  that 
dress  that  I  went  round  to  the  store,  think- 
ing maybe  Bud  might  have  some  come  in 
or  something,  and  that 's  how  come  they 
sold  it,  and  thinkin'  I  'd  git  it  for  you,  to 
make  sure " 

"Maw,  that  was  right  sweet  and  kind  of 
you,"  exclaimed  Abby;  her  heart  smote  her 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     175 

with  the  remembrance  of  many  kindnesses 
from  her  dismal  mother-in-law,  dolefully 
rendered,  but  in  all  willing-ness  of  heart. 

"I  don't  guess  you  need  to  be  thankful, 
Abby ;  didn't  come  to  nothing-.  I  only  found 
out  that  they  didn't  have  nare  'nother  bit. 
Bud  had  spoken  to  Mis'  Arnott  how  you 
thought  of  taking  the  piece ;  but  he  said  that 
only  seemed  to  make  her  more  wishful  to 
have  it,  and  he  didn't  like  to  mad  her,  she 
buys  so  much." 

"Sister  Arnott  has  been  mean  to  us  all 
ever  since  we  came,"  said  Abby;  but,  to  the 
widow's  surprise,  she  said  it  without  vio- 
lence. There  was  an  absent  look  in  her  eye, 
dissipated  for  a  second  by  the  petty  sting 
of  the  news,  but  returning  at  once.  "I 
reckon  the  Arnotts  would  be  glad  to  have 
us  quit.  Brother  Arnott 's  got  a  nephew  he 
thinks  Elder  would  assign  here." 

"  Oh  laws,  Abby !  But  he  cayn't !  "  cried 
the  widow,  in  dismay. 

"Not  unless  Eli's  willing;  but  —  maw, 
Eli  wants  to  leave  the  ministry! " 

"Well,  sir!"  the  widow  gasped.  She 
was  not  able  to  say  more;  her  lips  moved 


176    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

up  and  down  like  the  gills  of  a  fish  out  of 
water. 

"It  isn't  like  it  was  a  question  of  sup- 
port." Abby  spoke  doggedly.  "  Eli  earns 
far  more  by  his  painting  and  papering-  than 
he  does  at  preaching.  You  know  what  little 
places  we  've  been  at  —  making  a  crop  and 
Eli  preaching  round.  Yet  we  've  laid  by 
some  money.  I  've  slaved  night  and  day, 
hoping  we  could  leave  the  country  and  come 
to  some  civilized  place.  Eli 's  been  away 
most  of  the  time  papering  and  painting, 
coming  back  to  the  circuit  to  preach  Sun- 
days. The  conference  made  no  objections, 
because  he  always  did  his  full  duty,  and  he 
was  willing  to  take  such  little  pay.  It  was 
lonesome  for  me,  but  I  was  willing  to  bear 
it,  always  hoping  he  would  get  a  better  cir- 
cuit. And  I  was  so  happy  when  we  moved 
here.  But  now  Eli  says  he  must  quit.  He 
has  enough  to  buy  a  little  farm  if  he  cayn't 
open  a  shop  here  —  maw,  don't  cry  like 
that!" 

The  widow  had  taken  out  her  handker- 
chief, and  quietly,  but  in  a  thorough-going 
manner,  with  no  attempt  to  gains trive  it, 


Why  Abby Ionia  Surrendered.     177 

was  abandoning  herself  to  grief.  Her  first 
words  were,  "Reckon  I  got  to  ask  you  to 
give  me  another  han'kercher,  Abbylonia;  I 
set  out  not  knowing  I  'd  have  occasion  to 
use  it,  excepting  for  ordinary  purposes, 
and  I  picked  up  little  Hattie's,  and  it 's  so 
small  that  I  —  I  got  to  trouble  you!  " 

She  mopped  her  eyes  patiently  with  the 
small  cotton  square  until  the  fresh  hand- 
kerchief appeared,  when  the  deferred  flood 
swept  over  the  barriers  of  control  and  she 
wept  aloud. 

uOh,  he  was  a  child  of  prayer!"  —  so 
articulate  speech  shaped  itself  in  the  chaos 
of  woeful  sounds.  "When  he  wasn't  more  'n 
twelve  year  old  I  told  him  I  wanted  him  to 
be  a  preacher,  and  I  begun  reading  of  him 
sermons  on  a  Sunday  —  and  —  he  never  did 
like  'em !  He  always  wanted  to  paint  and  to 
chop  things  with  the  hatchet.  He  painted 
the  hull  wood  shed  different  colors,  to  see 
how  they  'd  look;  and  I  used  to  pray  over 
him  and  cry  nights.  I  don't  guess  buckets 
on  buckets  would  hole  my  tears ;  and  at  last 
you  come  to  visit  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
he  begun  to  wait  on  you,  and  you  persuaded 


178    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

of  him  —  oh,  Lordy !  how  kin  I  bear  it  if  he 
gives  it  up  now !  And  this  a  heap  the  best 
place  he  ever  did  git!  " 

"The  only  decent  place,"  said  Abby. 

"How  come  it,  Abby?  You  taking-  in 
sech  a  heap  of  books  and  papers,  they  ain't 
led  Eli  astray,  have  they?  That  magazine 
on  the  table,  are  you  sure  it 's  sound  reli- 
giously? The  kiver  is  plumb  worldly,  to 
my  mind.  He  ain't  lost  his  faith?  " 

"He  hates  to  preach,  and  he  loves  to 
paint.  I  reckon  that 's  it,  as  near  as  I  can 
ascertain." 

The  widow  rocked  to  and  fro,  sobbing. 
There  were  no  tears  in  Abby's  eyes;  her 
mouth  was  rigid. 

"If  he  wasn't  so  obstinate,"  mourned  the 
widow.  "He  always  did  be  mule-headed, 
even  as  a  little  boy.  He  was  mild  as  milk, 
but  once  get  him  to  make  up  his  mind,  and 
there  wasn't  nare  moving  of  him." 

"We  did  move  him  once,"  said  Abby; 
"  he  didn't  ever  want  to  be  a  minister." 

"But  look  how  well  he  's  done  —  look  at 

his  sermons "  Her  speech  snapped  off 

short;  and  both  women  colored.  "Oh, 


Why  Abby Ionia  Surrendered.     179 

Abby,  I  cay  n't  keep  it  from  you  no  longer; 
I've  known  it  all  along-!  "  the  widow  cried. 

Abby  smiled  bitterly.  "Well,  maw,  I 
reckon  I  'm  glad.  And  you  never  told " 

"  I  never  told  a  mortal  soul.  Not  Hattie ; 
not  nobody." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  didn't,  maw,  or  Bud  would 
have  had  it  all  over  town." 

"Abby,  i*  it  that?" 

"  Yes,  maw,  it 's  that.  He  says  he  can't 
endure  it  any  longer." 

"I  'low  you  've  always  done  it." 

"Always.  He  never  wrote  a  word  him- 
self. I  wrote  them,  and  he  learned  them, 
sometimes.  More  times  he  's  read  them 
off." 

"It  has  been  right  hard  on  you,  Abby." 

Abby  turned  away  her  head;  then  she 
flung  it  back,  and  her  eyes  were  glowing. 
"  Yes,  it  has  been  hard,  maw ;  but  it 's  been 
a  comfort  in  a  way,  too.  You  know  how  I 
always  have  hungered  after  books  and 
papers.  Maw,  every  cent  of  Eli's  salary 
he  's  given  me.  He  -would  do  it.  He  's 
made  a  good  living  for  us  beside.  And  I  've 
bought  magazines  and  papers  and  books.  I 


180    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

like  having-  the  money.  But  I  liked  the 

I  don't  know  whether  you  '11  understand 
me,  but  there  's  something-  in  me  that  had 
to  come  out, and  it  came  out  in  the  sermons; 
and  when  I  got  so  unhappy  it  was  a  strange 
kind  of  comfort  to  talk  about  troubles  that 
were  not  like  mine,  yet,  being  troubles, 
made  a  suffering-  that  was  like  mine." 

"They  always  were  powerful  g-ood  ser- 
mons, Abby.  But  what  were  you  unhappy 
about,  daughter?  Losing  of  the  baby,  of 
course,  but  anything  else?  Has  this  here 
you  doing  his  work  made  a  differ  between 
you  two?  " 

"  Something  has, "  said  Abby ;  "  he  —  he 's 
kind  as  ever,  but  he  tells  me  nothing.  I 
know  he  's  miserable.  I  've  known  it  along 
time,  but  he  never  has  said  a  word  until  last 
week.  Then,  all  at  once,  he  told  me  he 
couldn't  endure  it  any  longer;  he  felt  he 
was  a  fraud.  As  long  as  he  was  working 
round  at  little  places,  doing  more  pastoral 
work  than  preaching,  it  hadn't  seemed  so 
bad  to  him.  I  asked  him  what  he  was  going 
to  say,  and  he  said,  'The  truth ! '  He  was 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     181 

going  to  get  up  in  church  and  make  confes- 
sion before  God  and  man " 

"  Oh,  laws,  Abby,  you  mustn't  let  him  do 
that!"  cried  the  widow. 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Abby, 
with  a  kind  of  groan.  "  Oh,  maw,  you  don't 
understand."  She  bit  her  lips;  even  to  her 
husband's  mother  the  wife  could  not  say : 
"  You  don't  understand  how  little  influence 
I  have  over  him." 

"Yes,  I  do,  tew,  Abby;  he  's  powerful 
obstinate.  And  I  reckon  it 's  hard  for  a 
man  to  feel  his  wife  's  smarter  'n  him  1 " 

"  I  'm  not,  and  I  don't  think  it,"  said  Abby; 
"but  maw,  you  never  told  me  —  how  did 
you  find  out?" 

" Oh,  easy,"  sighed  the  widow;  "the  ser- 
mons was  like  you  and  not  like  Eli,  and  one 
night  I  found  some  sheets  of  paper  in  the 
wood  box.  I  couldn't  help  finding  out  — 
laws,  Abby,  there 's  Eli  himself!  " 

"Abby!  Is  Abby  here?"  said  a  deep, 
mild  voice.  "  Why,  maw,  is  it  you?  Rest 
your  bonnet  on  a  chair  and  stay  to  supper 
with  us." 

Eli  had  opened  the  door  and  was  before 


1 82    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

them,  a  tall  figure,  stooping1  a  little,  with  a 
handsome  face.  The  curly  brown  hair  was 
wearing  away  on  the  temples.  They  were 
well  shaped  temples,  and  the  forehead  was 
a  promising  dome.  The  features  beneath, 
too,  were  clear  cut  and  manly,  and  the  eyes 
were  bright,  but  the  whole  countenance 
wore  a  deprecating  expression  that  made 
one  think  of  a  dog  expecting  a  blow,  and  for 
which  there  was  no  sufficient  reason  either 
in  Eli  Eddings's  nature  or  prospects.  He 
was  a  Methodist  minister,  who  was  known 
favorably  among  the  brethren  as  one  who 
asked  for  little  from  the  conference,  went 
willingly  to  the  least  desirable  circuits,  and 
preached  impassioned  sermons  in  an  apa- 
thetic manner. 

The  widow  kissed  her  son  tearfully,  but 
she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  stay,  and  he 
followed  her  voyage  through  the  mud 
puddles  with  an  anxious  eye. 

"Ain't  maw  been  crying? "  said  he. 

"You  're  right  observing,  Eli,"  said 
Abby,  dryly.  "Yes,  she  has." 

"I  hope  it  wasn't  anything  serious, 
Abby." 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     183 

"  That 's  as  you  look  at  it,  Eli.  She  was 
crying-  about  your  leaving-  the  ministry." 

"  I  was  'fraid  she  would  take  it  that  way," 
said  Eli.  And  he  sig-hed. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  've  seen  your 
mother  so  worked  up,  Eli;  it  's  going-  to  be 
a  most  terrible  thing-  to  her  if  you  do  the 
way  you  said." 

Eli's  lips  puckered  with  pain.  He  said 
nothing-,  and  his  silence  and  the  very 
misery  of  his  bearing-  pricked  his  wife's 
temper.  She  was  exasperated  and  fright- 
ened at  once.  The  thought  darted  to  her, 
"  He 's  fixing  not  to  give  in,  no  matter  how 
it  hurts  him! "  Her  anger  flashed  out  be- 
fore she  could  ask  herself  was  it  wise  to 
speak.  "It  's  a  cruel,  unmanly  thing  you 
propose  to  do,  Eli  Eddings,"  she  cried  — 
"  shaming  your  mother  and  me  before  all 
these  strangers.  You  may  have  a  right  to 
confess  your  own  sins,  if  you  will  call  them 
that,  but  you  've  no  right  to  confess  mine!" 

"But,  Abby"  — Eli  found  his  voice  — 
"you  didn't  do  wrong;  it  was  me.  All  the 
same,  if  you  don't  want  it,  I  can  jest  say  I 


184    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

didn't  write  the  sermons.  I  won't  speak 
your  name." 

Abby  shivered.  "I  think,"  said  she, 
slowly,  in  an  emotionless  voice,  "that  if 
you  lived  with  me  a  hundred  years  you 
wouldn't  understand  me,  Eli." 

"Maybe  not,"  Eli  answered,  patiently. 
"  I  expect  I  had  better  pack  up  some  water 
for  you,  Abby,  and  fill  the  wood  box." 
Therewith  he  was  edging-  out  of  the  room. 

"Can't  you  see  the  box  is  full?"  said 
Abby.  "Johnny  Hinds  filled  it.  He  was 
over  here.  Susy  Nell  fell  in  the  cistern 

"  The  father's  face  changed  sharply 

before  she  could  add,  "Of  course  I  pulled 
her  out;  I  heard  the  splash  and  there  she 
was,  floundering " 

"And  it 's  eight  feet  deep, and  you  cayn't 
swim  I  Oh  Lord,  Abby,  what  did  you  do?  " 

"  Threw  the  clothes  line  to  her,  of  course, 
and  told  her  to  catch  on  and  hold  on  or  I  'd 
whip  her!  What  else  could  I  do?  She'd 
have  drowned  before  I  could  rummage  up 
that  ladder  in  the  barn! " 

"But  how  did  you  pull  her  up?  " 

"  I  called  on  Johnny  Hinds,  who  was  out 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     185 

in  their  yard,  and  he  ran  over.  I  made  him 
get  that  long-  board  you  had  for  papering-, 
and  I  had  him  put  it  down  crossways  in  the 
cistern,  and  I  hauled  her  to  the  board,  and 
she  climbed  out  enoug-h  for  me  to  catch 
her." 

"  You  —  you  weren't  mad  at  her,  Abby  ?" 
Eli  spoke  timidly,  and  Abbylonia's  eyes 
turned  to  steel. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  she  caught  on  to  the 
rope  as  I  told  her?  Do  you  suppose  I  'd 
punish  her  for  minding-  of  me?  No;  I  boiled 
her  some  milk  and  gave  Johnny  and  her 
some  doughnuts.  I  had  to  change  every 
stitch  on  her." 

Eddings  swallowed  twice.  "You  're  awful 
smart,  Abby!"  said  he.  Then  he  cleared 
his  throat;  but  nothing  came  of  the  exer- 
cise, and  presently  he  shuffled  out  of  the 
room. 

Abbylonia  sank  into  a  chair,  leaned  her 
head  back,  and  laughed.  "That 'sail  the  good 
it 's  done,  my  telling,"  she  said  to  herself; 
uhe  's  gone  to  hug  and  kiss  her;  he  hasn't 
a  thought  left  for  me.  He  didn't  even  kiss 
me  once.  What  do  I  care?  When  he  does, 


1 86    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

it 's  only  because  lie  promised  to  love  his 
wife.  It  's  his  duty.  Well,  I  don't  blame 
him.  I  'm  ugly  tempered  and  I  'm  homely ; 
I  'm  worn  to  the  bone  working-  for  him.  Oh, 
Lord !  Oh,  Lord !  How  can  you  make  a  wo- 
man like  me,  who  can't  make  her  husband 
love  her,  and  can't  stop  loving  him !  "  She 
walked  to  the  little  glass  above  the  roller 
towel  and  gazed  steadily  on  her  image.  The 
sunlight  gave  her  every  wrinkle.  Merci- 
lessly it  painted  the  irregular  sharp  fea- 
tures, the  straight  black  hair,  the  unquiet 
eyes,  the  lines  scoring  the  brow  between 
the  eyebrows  (like  footprints  of  a  frown), 
the  set  mouth,  the  crooked  curve  of  the  jaw. 
The  attractions  of  the  face,  its  clear  soft 
tints,  the  brilliancy  of  the  eyes,  and  the 
white  teeth  that  showed  in  a  flashing  smile, 
the  refinement  of  those  irregular  features, 
the  vitality  and  changing  intensity  that 
informed  the  whole  plain  countenance  — 
these,  which  were  poor  Abby's  real  charm, 
she  could  not  see,  and  the  picture  was  gall- 
some  to  her.  She  turned  away  with  a  groan. 
"He  's  a  good  man,"  she  thought,  "but 
nobody  can  be  so  cruel  as  good  people.  To 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     187 

get  rest  for  his  own  conscience  he  's  willing 
to  send  me  to  perdition !  I  '11  die  before  I 
'11  go  back  and  live  on  a  farm  again,  with 
Eli  away  half  the  time.  And  I  wouldn't 
even  have  the  sermons  to  write  and  the 
little  money  for  my  own."  How  much 
comfort  she  found  in  the  spending  of  that 
pittance,  without  let  or  hindrance,  on  the 
books  for  which  she  hungered,  is  beyond 
the  imagination  of  one  who  has  not  been  a 
dependent  step-daughter,  filching  a  crude 
education  from  sleep,  and  picking  cotton  to 
earn  the  price  of  a  print  gown.  "Yes," 
she  repeated,  "  I  '11  die  sooner !  "  Under  all 
her  physical  and  mental  torture,  even  while 
she  called  herself  hopeless,  she  had  been 
hoping  that  Eli  would  be  moved  by  the 
danger  to  the  child-  and  by  her  rescue,  and 
that  she  could  use  his  awakened  tenderness 
to  soften  his  purpose.  The  hope  had  failed. 
"  I  '11  give  him  one  last  chance,"  she  said. 
"I  '11  not  be  angry  or  bitter.  I  '11  speak  to 
him  calmly  and  kindly.  We  '11  talk  it  over, 
and  at  least  he  '11  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  speak 
out ;  he  can  quit  the  ministry  without  mak- 
ing the  town  too  hot  to  hold  us." 


1 88    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

Trying  to  blow  the  dead  embers  of  her 
hope  into  life  after  this  fashion,  she  went 
about  preparing-  a  better  supper  than  usual 
for  Eli.  She  was  so  footsore  that  every 
step  hurt  her,  and  there  were  shooting- 
pains  in  her  back,  but  she  moved  briskly. 
Whatever  Abby  lacked,  it  was  not  fortitude. 
Eli  came  in,  laden  with  wood,  and  Susy 
Nell  at  his  heels  carried  a  basket  of  kind- 
ling. 

"Susy  Nell's  been  giving-  Johnny  a  beau- 
tiful knife,"  said  Eli,  in  a  cheerful  high 
tone,  "and  papa's  going-  to  paint  Johnny's 
mamma's  parlor  for  her  to-morrow  —  to 
show  how  good  we  think  he  was  to  pull  Susy 
Nell  out  of  the  mean,  bad  cistern.  Now 
Susy  's  going  to  be  mamma's  little  helpin' 
dirl,  ain't  she?" 

Susy  Nell,  a  chubby,  smiling  little  crea- 
ture of  five,  proffered  the  basket,  and  Abby 
kissed  her,  saying,  "Now  you  run  out  and 
play."  Susy  Nell  felt  vaguely  repulsed, 
but  she  took  it  in  good  part,  and  pattered 
away  for  the  yard.  She  forgot  the  kisses 
which  (as  agreed  outside)  she  was  to  give 
udear  mamma  for  pulling  her  out  of  the 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     189 

cistern."  And  Eli  was  too  after-witted  to 
remind  her.  He  busied  himself  making1  the 
fire  and  cutting-  the  meat. 

"Maw  told  me  you  didn't  get  the  paint* 
ing-  of  the  pews." 

Eli  avoided  her  eye.  "No,  Abby;  they 
gave  it  to  Hobson.  Maybe  I  hadn't  ought 
to  say  it,  but  I  'm  afraid  they  '11  make  a 
botch  of  it,  too.  They  don't  understand 
fine  work." 

"They  certainly  don't, "said  Abby ;  "they 
painted  Hattie's  aunt's  house,  and  the  paint 
streaked  dark  streaks  the  very  next  sum- 
mer." 

"Put  turpentine  in  it,  and  most  likely 
used  boiled  linseed  oil,"  said  Eli,  with  a 
sudden  air  of  interest.  "Well,  I  would 
hate  to  have  them  spoil  those  pews.  I 
wonder  would  they  take  it  hard  if  I  was  to 
caution  them  against  boiled  oil,  and  ask  'em 
to  put  plenty  of  japan  in  the  paint  for  the 
inside.  They  're  going-  to  varnish  the 
pews,  they  say;  and  if  they  ain't  careful 
and  don't  use  the  right  kind  of  hard  finish, 
which  takes  a  heap  of  rubbing  and  goes  on 


190    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

mighty  slow  like,  there  '11  be  trouble  for 
sure." 

"  But  why  did  Brother  Arnott  not  get  you 
to  do  it?  you  the  minister,  too,  and  having 
an  interest " 

"Well,  he  said  that  was  the  very  reason 
—  said  ministers  of  the  Gospel  had  no  right 
to  be  engaged  in  secular  callings.  I  reckon 
he  's  partly  right,  too." 

"Are  you  of  the  same  mind  still,  Eli?" 

"If  I  'd  thought  of  changing,  how  could  I 
ayfter  the  Lord's  dealing  with  me  this 
day?" 

"  Do  you  think  the  Lord  pulled  her  out  of 
the  cistern?  or  maybe  you  think  He  pushed 
her  in"  said  Abby.  She  had  turned  around. 
Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her  eyes  glit- 
tered, and  she  spoke  in  an  unfamiliar  voice. 

Eli's  sluggish  wits  could  not  rally  under 
her  vehemence.  "I  —  I  reckon  we  better 
not  talk  about  it  till  you  feel  cammer, 
Abby,"  he  stammered.  Which  was  about 
the  most  irritating  thing  that  he  could  have 
said. 

Abby  had  begun  the  interview  deter- 
mined not  to  grow  angry ;  but  poor  Abby, 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     191 

with  her  raw  nerves  and  the  canker-fret  of 
jealousy  in  her  heart,  was  not  in  a  condition 
to  discuss  the  merits  of  baking-  powder, 
safely.  The  passion  that  she  had  tried  to 
smother,  blazed  up  at  Eli's  words.  She 
flung-  out  her  arms  wildly,  crying-:  "It  's 
now  or  never,  Eli  Eddings.  For  the  last 
time,  and  mighty  near  the  first  time  too, 
I  'm  going  to  ask  you  to  consider  me.  It  is 
folly  of  you  to  imagine  we  can  live  on  here 
ay  f  ter  your  getting  up  and  making  that  con- 
fession. I  couldn't  show  my  face  among 
the  ladies  here.  /  have  a  little  sense  of 
shame,  if  you  haven't!  " 

Eli  hung  his  head.  "  We  could  go  into 
the  country  and  rent  and  make  a  crop " 

"I  hate  the  country!  I  hate  the  country 
people!" 

"  You  didn't  hate  the  folks  at  Sycamore 
Kurd  when  they  were  so  kind  to  us,  when 
little  Eli  died,  and  put  up  a  stone  to  his 
grave,  and  Sister  Mitchell  picked  all  the 
geraniums  she  was  saving  for  Rosy's  wed- 
ding—  you  don't  hate  them,  Abby?"  said 
Eli,  sorrowfully.  And  his  patience,  instead 
of  quelling  Abby's  wrath,  only  made  it 


192    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

mount  the  higher;  it  seemed  to  put  her  in 
the  wrong-,  who  was  really  in  the  right. 

Except  for  the  goading  of  her  fury  she 
could  never  have  answered  him  so  cruelly ; 
but  nothing  seems  cruel  to  an  angry  wife 
who  has  disputed  with  her  husband.  She 
said :  "  If  we  hadn't  been  out  in  Sycamore 
Hurd,  if  you  'd  taken  the  other  circuit  they 
offered,  and  been  in  town  near  a  doctor, 
perhaps  baby  wouldn't  have  died!  " 

Eli  recoiled,  and  his  face  went  white. 
Abby  was  not  looking  at  him;  she  had 
whisked  back  to  her  frying  pan  on  the 
stove;  when  the  hot  grease  spattered  on 
her  wrist  she  smiled  savagely  at  the  pain. 
Her  husband's  voice  came  after  a  long 
pause : 

"I  don't  guess  there  's  much  use  our 
talking,  Abby ;  if  there  ain't  anything  I  can 
do  to  help  you  'bout  supper  I  reckon  I  '11  go 
out  in  the  yard  with  Susy  Nell." 

"Eli,  are  you  going  to  speak  out  next 
Sunday?" 

"  We  won't  talk  'bout  it  now,  Abby.  You 
—  you  pray,  too,  and  then  we  '11  talk." 

"  Eli,  no  prayer  will  change  this  to  me. 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     193 

And  I  tell  you  now,  you  '11  be  sorrier  than 
you  ever  were  in  your  life  if  you  do  speak." 

Eli  made  no  reply  at  all.  He  left  the 
house.  He  carried  away  a  deep  wound  of 
his  own ;  and  pain  always  made  him  silent. 
But  again  his  silence  infuriated  his  wife. 
At  supper  she  told  him  that  Susy  Nell  was 
coughing-,  and  she  had  best  stay  with  her 
that  night. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  'd  ought  to  have  the 
doctor  step  in?"  said  Eli,  anxiously,  "Is 
your  throat  sore,  honey  lamb?  " 

He  made  no  slightest  objection.  Abby 
staid  with  Susy  Nell  every  night  that  week. 
The  cold  had  disappeared  —  if  there  ever 
had  been  a  cold  —  but  Eli  did  not  speak  of  a 
change. 

"  He 's  glad  to  be  rid  of  me,"  thought  the 
miserable  wife ;  "all  he  cares  for  is  Susy 
Nell,"  and  her  anger  changed  into  some- 
thing deadly  and  still.  At  times  she  was 
conscious  that  her  torment  of  soul  was 
overmuch  for  anything  that  Eli  had  done. 
Then  she  would  tell  herself  that  she  had 
lost  her  husband's  love,  and  she  would  have 
to  grow  old  and  haggard  in  the  slavery  of  a 


194    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

farm,  and  gradually,  as  her  health  failed, 
that  she  would  sink  into  the  like  of  the 
slatternly  drudges  that  she  despised.  She 
felt  her  strength  failing.  She  could  not  do 
half  the  work  that  she  used  to  do  unless  she 
lashed  herself  through  the  last  part  of  her 
tasks.  Years  of  overtaxed  days  and  robbed 
nights  were  having  their  revenge.  The 
creeping  paralysis  of  estrangement  had 
aided  them,  and  the  shock  of  Eli's  decision 
dealt  the  last  blow.  Abby 's  nervous  system 
simply  collapsed.  She  did  not  suspect  it, 
but  she  was  not  a  responsible  creature. 

There  was  a  strange  sensation  in  her 
head  all  the  time.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  conscious  of  the  physical  working  of 
her  thoughts,  and  that  as  they  passed  from 
one  chamber  of  her  brain  to  another,  she 
felt  the  passage.  Once  this  notion  had 
fastened  on  her  mind,  she  could  not  pluck 
it  away,  and  the  wearisome  disquietude  of  it, 
it  is  impossible  to  suggest.  Unreal  noises 
began  to  vex  her  ears.  She  would  hear  her 
dead  baby  cry;  wailing  voices  would  rise 
and  sink,  which,  no  sooner  did  she  hearken, 
would  cease  or  change  into  the  clamor  of  the 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     195 

poultry  yard.  At  first  the  ghastly  path  of 
escape  from  her  trouble  had  been  only  the 
mental  elaboration  of  her  angry  phrase, 
"I  '11  die  sooner!" 

Then  she  did  not  mean  to  die;  but  inch 
by  inch  the  tide  of  despair  submerg-ed  the 
nervous  woman's  reason.  The  fancy  be- 
came a  possibility ;  at  last  it  was  a  desire. 

"I  'm  growing-  crazy,  I  expect. "  said 
Abby.  "  Well,  it  don't  matter,  if  I  can  die 
in  time!" 

It  may  be  asked,  had  Abby  no  religious 
scruples  regarding-  the  sin  that  she  medi- 
tated? Not  any.  It  is  the  besetting-  temp- 
tation of  the  handler  of  religious  thing's  to 
lose  his  reverence  in  the  familiarity  of  habit. 
Every  clergyman  knows  the  deadening1 
effect  of  the  constant  use  of  religious 
phraseology.  And  Abby  had  no  protec- 
tion of  religious  zeal.  She  was  not  a  pious 
woman.  She  wrote  her  sermons  not  to 
save  souls,  but  to  help  the  Reverend  Eli 
Edding-s.  From  indifference  she  had  slipped 
into  doubt. 

"If  there  is  a  God,  He  knows  I  cayn't 
bear  it!  "  she  said. 


196    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  she  no  longer 
watched  Eli's  face  for  signs  of  relenting-. 
She  withdrew  into  the  shadow  of  her  dis- 
tempered dreams.  Here  was  a  way  to 
punish  Eli,  all  the  dearer  because  it  would 
make  her  suffer  as  well  as  him.  A  woman 
always  likes  to  strike  the  man  that  she  loves 
through  her  own  heart. 

So  the  soul  of  Eli's  wife  walked  apart 
among-  formless  hopes  and  fears,  or  beat 
ag-ainst  that  impasse,  a  realization  of  the 
next  step  beyond  the  g-ate.  Yet  to  outward 
seeming-  she  was  not  chang-ed,  except  that 
she  was  a  trifle  absent  minded.  Until  Fri- 
day she  had  a  faint  —  was  it  hope  or  fear? 
— that  Eli  mig-ht  give  up  his  purpose  to 
his  mother's  pleading-s  if  not  to  hers.  Fri- 
day, the  widow  paid  her  a  visit.  After 
thanking-  Abby  for  certain  gifts  of  pre- 
serves sent  in  during  the  week,  she  took 
out  her  handkerchief. 

"  You  always  have  ben  a  good  daughter 
to  me,  Abbylonia,"  she  said;  and  the  ready 
tears  welled  in  her  eyes.  "  I  cayn't  say  how 
I  feel,  I  feel  so  for  you  in  this  hour  of  trial.  I 
've  made  it  a  subjec'  of  prayer,  and  studied 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     197 

and  studied  on  it  till  my  hand'cher  wasn't 
enough  and  I  had  to  take  my  apron !  And 
this  here  is  how  I  look  at  it.  Abby,  honey, 
there  ain't  no  good  comes  of  fighting-  agin 
the  will  of  the  Lord.  I  knew  Eli  hadn't  no 
call  to  be  a  minister.  He  knew  it  too,  and 
he  tried  to  beg  off;  but  I  kept  a-pecking  at 
him  and  a-worrying  of  him  until  he  gave  up, 
wore  out.  And  now  looks  like  it  is  a  judg- 
ment on  me  that  he  is  going  to  quit  in  the 
sight  of  men.  I  've  talked  with  him,  and 
he  's  spoke  his  mind ;  and,  Abby,  I  cayn't 
oppose  him,  though  it  '11  mortify  me  so  I 
reckon  I  '11  be  obliged  to  leave  town." 

Abby  laid  her  sewing  down.  The  widow 
shielded  herself  behind  her  handkerchief 
and  sobbed.  Had  Abby  scolded  her,  she 
would  have  sobbed  the  louder.  But  Abby 
answered,  in  a  quiet, 'mild,  voice :  "  I  expect 
you  have  aimed  to  do  right,  maw.  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  I  blamed  you.  It 's  be- 
tween Eli  and  me.  Don't  cry.  Look  at  this 
dress  of  Susy  Nell's.  Do  you  reckon  she 
will  like  it?" 

The  widow  sniffed  gratefully,  and  was 
sure  Susy  Nell  would  like  such  a  beautiful 


198    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

frock.  She  did  not  adventure  any  return  to 
the  perilous  theme,  and  soon  fared  forth, 
equally  bewildered  and  relieved. 

Then  Abby,  in  her  neat  street  gown,  her 
smooth  hair  shining-,  and  every  pin  on  her 
in  place,  walked  down  the  broad,  sunny  vil- 
lage street,  where  bluets  were  sprinkling: 
the  green  sod  on  either  side  the  wooden 
walk,  to  Bud  Slater's  store,  and  bought  a 
box  of  rat  poison,  with  a  lying-  jest.  That 
night,  for  the  first  time  in  a  week,  she  slept 
all  nig-ht.  All  day  Saturday  her  manner 
was  exceedingly  g-entle.  Eli  was  moved  by 
her  soft,  unusual  ways,  but  did  not  know 
how  to  show  his  feeling-,  beyond  constant 
attention  to  the  wood  boxes  and  buying  her 
a  copper  wash  boiler.  The  strange  diffi- 
dence that  often  stands  between  those  in 
the  closest  relations,  locked  his  tongue 
while  he  longed  to  speak.  Abby  no  longer 
cared  to  talk.  The  desire  for  expression 
was  all  burned  out  by  the  constant  thought 
of  that  one  tremendous  expression  on  which 
she  was  resolved. 

Sunday  morning  dawned  bright  and  beau- 
tiful, as  March  mornings  often  dawn  in  Ar- 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     199 

kansas.  Abby  bathed  and  dressed  her- 
self with  unusual  care.  Then  she  made 
Susy  Nell  ready  for  church.  She  won- 
dered at  herself  that  she  shouldn't  feel  more 
—  this  last  time  she  would  ever  dress  the 
child.  She  kissed  her,  but  there  was  neither 
grief  nor  passion  in  the  kiss.  That  was  be- 
cause grief  belong-ed  to  the  left  lobes  of  the 
brain,  and  somehow  it  had  become  mis- 
placed, and  was  on  the  rig-ht  side;  she 
couldn't  suffer  on  the  right  side.  "  Or  else 
I  'm  a  wicked  woman  who  doesn't  love  her 
children,"  thoug-ht  Abby.  " I  '11  let  her  g-o 
to  Bessie  Moon's  for  dinner.  Better  for 
her.  I'd  like  to  see  her  once  more,  but  it 
doesn't  matter  about  me ;  I  'm  a  wicked  wo- 
man. The  hill  women  used  to  love  their 
children  best,  better  than  their  husbands, 
but  I  always  loved  Eli  best  —  better  than 
baby,  even.  Baby,  what  are  you  crying- 
out  in  the  barn  for?  Oh,  he  bruised  his 
little  pale  cheek!  Oh,  baby,  baby!  the 
bruise  was  there  in  his  coffin!  And  Mrs. 
Mitchell  fetched  all  her  flowers.  She  came 
over  in  that  calico  that  was  so  short  in 
front  —  I  wish  I  'd  helped  her  cut  that  dress 


2OO    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

instead  of  just  lending  her  the  pattern  — 
she  came  over  in  all  the  rain.  I  hated  to 
have  it  rain,  and  I  cried  that  night  to  have 
it  raining  on  his  little  grave,  and  to  have 
him  out  in  it  all  alone.  I  wish  I  could  cry 
now." 

But  she  did  not  cry ;  after  all,  why  should 
she,  when  she  would  soon  be  out  of  all  the 
worry,  and  wouldn't  need  to  feel  her 
thoughts  beating  through  her  brain? 

It  was  a  little  difficult  to  remember  about 
the  cooking;  nevertheless,  she  did  remem- 
ber, and  it  was  a  better  breakfast  than  com- 
mon that  she  set  before  Eli.  He  ate  very 
little  of  it.  She  said  to  herself  that  a  few 
weeks  ago  she  would  have  thought  how 
handsome  and  manly  he  looked  in  his  new 
black  suit.  Now  she  merely  wondered 
would  he  have  it  for  his  wedding  suit  when 
he  married  again?  Even  that  stab  fluttered 
her  heart  but  a  second;  then  she  was  back 
working  those  weary  thoughts  through  her 
brain. 

Eli  started  when  she  came  into  the  room 
ready  for  church.  "  It 's  awful  kind  of  you, 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     201 

Abby,"  he  faltered,  "  but  you  don't  need  to 
go.  Maw  is  going-  to  stay  home. " 

"  I  rather  go,  Eli,"  said  Abby,  untenderly 
but  gently. 

They  walked  down  the  street  together, 
little  Susy  Nell  tripping  ahead  in  the  sun- 
shine. The  town  was  prosperous,  and 
there  were  two  or  three  new  brick  build- 
ings with  wooden  trimmings  smart  with 
paint.  Here  and  there  over  the  plain  a 
mansion  rose  a  story  or  two  above  the 
pointed  roofs;  but  for  the  most  part  the 
houses  were  modest  southern  cottages,  not 
too  finical  about  the  back  yards.  The 
church  bells  were  ringing,  and  the  street 
was  full  of  little  groups  of  people  wending 
their  way  churchward  in  sedate  cheerful- 
ness. The  children's  white  frocks  and  a 
few  lawn  gowns  lent  a  brightsome  air  to  the 
simple  toilettes. 

Abby  gazed  quite  carelessly  about  her. 
To-morrow — to-morrow — where  would  she 
be?  She  wondered  why  she  did  not  suffer. 
"I  'm  going  to  die  to-night,  and  I  don't  care," 
she  said  to  herself,  dully.  "I  reckon  I  'm 
past  it."  She  didn't  want  to  think,  because 


202     Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

it  was  such  heavy  work  pushing-  the  thoughts 
through  the  cells  of  her  brain;  and  some- 
thing seemed  to  be  loose  in  the  machinery 
within  her  head,  and  to  be  rattling  about; 
but  she  kept  remembering  how  after  baby 
died  Eli  was  in  the  same  kind  of  daze.  She, 
in  her  own  passionate  anguish,  had  called 
him  stupid  of  heart.  Perhaps  she  had  mis- 
judged him.  It  was  then  that  the  misun- 
derstanding, the  alienation,  began  between 
them.  She  had  written  a  sermon  about 
the  death  of  children  —  a  sermon  that  she 
seemed  to  write  with  the  very  blood  of  her 
heart  —  and  Eli  refused  to  preach  it.  He 
said:  "I  cayn't  do  it!"  and  when  she 
pressed  for  a  reason  he  answered,  "I  don't 
want  to;  it  makes  me  feel  too  bad." 

Her  vanity  was  hurt.  Without  a  word  she 
wrote  him  another  sermon,  instead  of  the 
old  one  which  he  proposed  to  preach.  She 
never  mentioned  the  sermon  afterward. 
Neither  did  he.  Nor  did  she  see  it  again; 
but  she  found  some  charred  sheets  of  paper 
in  the  embers  on  the  hearth  next  morning, 
and  concluded  (without  examining)  that 
Eli  had  burned  the  sermon  overnight.  And 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.    203 

it  hurt  her.  But  now  that  it  was  too  late, 
now  that  everything-  was  too  late,  she  won- 
dered whether  she  had  not  been  rash  and 
hard.  They  were  passing-  Colonel  O'Neil's 
house,  where  the  few  Episcopalians  of  the 
village  g-athered  Sundays  to  listen  to  the 
service  read  by  one  of  their  number.  The 
music  of  their  hymn  rose  in  an  air  plaintive 
and  intense.  Passing-  the  open  window, 
Abby  could  hear  every  word : 

"  In  the  hour  of  trial, 

Jesus,  plead  for  me ! 
Lest  by  base  denial 
I  depart  from  Thee. " 

She  stole  a  glance  at  Eli.  Was  that  the 
way  he  felt?  A  new  apprehension  of  his 
motives  was  struggling-  into  her  confused 
mind.  She  drew  a  step  nearer  to  him.  Eli 
turned  his  eyes  on  her. 

"  I  expect  the  folks  are  anxious  to  see  the 
new  paint,"  said  he.  "I  spoke  to  Hobson 
and  warned  him,  but  he  said  he  reckoned 
he  knew  his  own  business;  and  I  'm  nigh 
certain  he  hasn't  used  hard  finish.  Don't 
you  sit  down  without  feeling,  Abby !  " 

Abby  laughed  a  hard  little  laugh,  and 


204    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

said  that  she  wouldn't.  She  did  not  speak 
again.  She  had  wondered  what  was  pass- 
ing- through  his  mind.  Well,  she  knew  now 
— in  this  supreme  day  of  his  life  he  was 
worrying-  about  paint !  No,  she  hadn  't 
done  him  injustice. 

Eli  parted  with  her  at  the  church  door. 
"Abby,"  he  began  —  "Abby  "  —  and  could 
get  no  further;  but  he  put  out  his  rough 
workingman's  hand  and  touched  her  sleeve 
with  a  lingering  fall.  Then  he  smiled  fee- 
bly, and  ended,  "  Mind  you  look  out  for  the 
paint." 

She  did  not  understand  that  he  was 
yearning  to  express  his  own  suffering  and 
his  sympathy  for  her,  that  he  longed  to 
touch  her,  as  a  child  in  pain  longs  to 
touch  its  mother.  And  she  parted  from 
him  with  a  mortal  ache  in  her  heart.  Yet 
his  words  followed  her,  trivial  as  they  were, 
and  automatically  she  obeyed  them.  She 
touched  the  seat  of  the  pew,  which,  truly 
enough,  was  sticky;  and  before  Susy  Nell 
and  she  sat  down,  she  covered  back  and  seat 
with  one  of  the  Sunday  school  papers  which 
were  scattered  among  the  pews.  Then  she 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.    205 

seated  herself,  and  sank  into  a  dreary 
reverie,  imageless  and  numb.  When  she 
glanced  up  the  pews  were  full,  and  Sister 
Arnott,  in  all  the  pomp  of  her  new  gown, 
was  stiffly  inclining-  her  shoulders  as  she 
sat  down  in  the  front  pew.  The  inde- 
structible respect  of  a  woman  for  a  pretty 
gown  was  stronger  in  Abby  at  that  mo- 
ment than  her  own  misery,  and  far 
stronger  than  any  ill  will  that  she 
might  bear  to  the  wearer.  Hastily  she 
arrested  the  descent  of  those  rustling 
sleeves.  "Don't!"  she  whispered;  "the 
varnish  is  all  sticky;  you  '11  spoil  your 
dress!"  And  she  picked  up  a  paper  and 
spread  it  out  herself.  At  the  same  moment 
she  nodded  a  warning  to  three  women  who 
were  entering  the  seat,  behind.  "  Perhaps 
the  other  seats  stick  too,"  she  said.  But 
Sister  Arnott,  with  dignity,  replied  that 
these  seats  were  varnished  last ;  the  others 
would  surely  be  dry.  And  Abby,  caring 
little,  sank  back  into  her  thoughts. 

Eli  was  on  his  feet  announcing  the  hymn. 
"  We  will  sing  the  one  hundred  and  fortieth 
hymn,  on  page  twenty-five  —  No.  140,  page 


206    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

25.  *  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  His 
wonders  to  perform.'  "  The  words  rolled 
back  into  the  minister's  throat.  He  could 
see  the  whole  church.  And  decidedly  it 
was  a  spectacle  to  be  seen,  for  all  over  the 
church  men  and  women  were  struggling-  to 
rise,  and  squirming  helplessly,  wrathfully, 
on  their  seats. 

The  climax  came  when  a  wailing  childish 
voice  pealed  out:  "Mamma!  mammal  I' 
stuck!  "  Then  the  emotions  that  decorum 
had  gagged  burst  forth.  There  was  a  rend- 
ing sound,  a  buzz  of  voices.  The  children 
especially  were  in  great  power,  little  girls 
whimpering  and  little  boys  giggling,  and 
Sister  Wayling's  baby  bawling  with  fright. 
Men  wrestled  and  women  writhed,  but  the 
varnish  held  stanchly,  and  the  scene  be- 
came a  wild  one.  Brother  Arnott,  who  came 
a  few  minutes  late,  stood  horror-stricken  in 
the  middle  of  the  aisle.  The  minister  hur- 
ried to  the  aid  of  his  imprisoned  flock. 
Sister  Arnott,  Abby,  a  few  fortunate  tardy 
sheep,  the  three  women  in  the  seat  behind 
Abby,  and  perhaps  half  a  dozen  provident 
ones  whose  custom  was  to  look  before  they 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.    207 

sat  as  well  as  before  they  leaped,  helped 
Brother  Arnott  and  Eli  to  pull  and  twist 
and  wrench  the  people  free,  although  at  a 
sad  cost  to  their  Sunday  clothes.  At  last 
all  except  Sister  Moon  and  Brother  Tredith 
were  rescued  from  the  snare  of  the  spoiler, 
and  the  congregation  gathered  about  these 
captives.  Sister  Moon  was  a  woman  of 
weight  in  every  sense,  the  richest  person- 
age in  the  town,  with  a  rich  vein  of  obsti- 
nacy running  through  a  pious  and  kindly 
nature,  who  had  long  since  ceased  to  tempt 
the  scales.  Brother  Tredith  was  a  man 
of  substance  and  great  stature,  and  (as 
he  carefully  explained)  he  had  sat  down 
"kinder  sky  west  and  crooked,"  hence 
there  was  the  more  of  him  to  stick. 

As  for  Sister  Moon,  she  announced  pite- 
ously  to  her  audience :  "It  ain't  that  I  'm  so 
powerful  heavy,  but  I  always  did  set  down 
hard !  And,  oh  laws !  this  seat  sticks  like 
fly  paper !  I  '11  never  have  another  sheet  in 
my  house,  now  I  know  how  it  feels !  It 's 
awful!  Brother  Eddings,  nev'  mind  if  you 
do  tear  my  dress;  I  got  plenty  on  under- 
neath to  be  decent,  and  I  never  was  proud! 


2o8    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

Pull  away!  Bless  you,  Sister  Eddings,  I 
really  felt  it  give  a  mite  then.  Cayn't  some 
more  ketch  holt  on  me?  Brother  Eddings, 
it 's  all  we-all's  own  fault,  for  you  done  told 
us,  and  told  them  to  put  on  different  var- 
nish; I  know  if  you  'd  'a'  painted  this  church 
we  'd  be  standing-  free  praising  the  Lord 
this  minnit!" 

And  Brother  Tredith's  tolling  base 
chimed  in :  "  That 's  right  I  There  ain't  a 
better  painter  in  Arkansas,  whatever  you 
call  him  for  a  preacher !  Now  most  like  we 
'11  have  to  be  soaked  off  with  alcohol,  and  all 
Hobson's  fool  work! " 

The  tide  thus  started  ran  high  against 
Hobson,  at  which  no  one  could  wonder  who 
had  what  might  be  called  an  all-round  view 
of  the  unfortunate  congregation.  By  this 
time  a  charitable  commercial  traveler  was 
trying  the  effect  of  whisky  on  varnish, 
under  Brother  Tredith's  direction,  and 
those  around  Sister  Moon  were  weak  with 
laughter.  Eli  himself  gave  the  last  pull 
which  freed  her,  and  was  in  time  to  peel  off 
Brother  Tredith's  long  legs.  Then  Abby 
reached  him,  and  whispered  him  to  dismiss 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     209 

the  congregation,  which  he  did  in  a  single 
sentence,  "I  reckon  we  all  better  go  home 
now." 

Abby  lingered  a  little  time  behind  the 
others;  she  was  detained  by  Sister  Arnott. 
Sister  Arnott  had  never  liked  Abby,  but 
now  she  took  her  hand,  saying,  heartily, 
"Sister  Eddings,  I  am  ashamed  I  got  this 
dress  when  I  more  than  half  suspected  you 
wanted  it ;  and  I  think  you  showed  a  right 
Christian  spirit  saving  it  for  me;  and  if  I 
can  ever  do  anything  for  you,  count  on  me!  " 

Abby  smiled,  and  said  something  in  reply, 
she  hardly  knew  what.  She  had  the  sensa- 
tion of  a  criminal  who  receives  a  reprieve 
on  his  journey  to  the  gallows.  Moreover, 
the  whole  drift  of  her  mind  was  diverted 
violently  by  the  farce  of  the  paint.  It 
seemed  ridiculous  to  think  of  suicide  when 
she  was  still  laughing  over  the  picture  of 
Sister  Moon!  Almost  unconsciously  she 
found  herself  laughing  at  it  with  Eli.  "  I 
believe  maw  would  have  had  to  laugh  too," 
she  cried.  "  I  wish  she  had  been  there." 

"It  was  awful  good  of  you  to  come  this 
morning,"  said  Eli,  with  a  grateful  look; 


2io    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

"and  maw  told  me  'bout  that  dress,  how 
you  wanted  it,  and  I  sent  to  St.  Louis  for 
one  for  you.  I  think  it  was  right  sweet 
of  you  saving-  it  for  Sister  Arnott  that  way." 

"  She  looked  so  pretty  in  it,  and  it  is  such 
a  nice  dress " 

Eli  opened  his  mouth,  gasping-  vainly ;  it 
seemed  to  him  a  very  lame  speech  that  he 
made,  but  perhaps  it  served  his  purpose 
with  Abby  quite  as  well  as  eloquence.  He 
said:  "You  're  a  heap  prettier  than  her, 
Abby!" 

Abby  stood  still  in  the  road  to  look  at 
him;  but  no  suspicion  could  endure  before 
his  simple-hearted  gaze.  She  reddened  and 
smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  "You  haven't 
said  that  much  to  me,  Eli,  for — years!  " 

"But  you  knew  I  thought  it! " 

"No,  I  didn't.  Susy  Nell,  run  ahead; 
Bessie  Moon's  signaling  to  you  over  yonder ! 
I  reckon  I  am  mean,  Eli,  but  it 's  mighty 
hard  to  have  your  husband  think  so " 

"I  never  did  think  so,  as  God  hears  me, 
honey.  But  you  were  so  much  smarter  'n 
me,  and  wrote  such  beautiful  sermons,  I 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.    211 

'lowed  you  looked  down  on  a  uneducated 
man  like  me " 

"Eli"  —  his  wife  interrupted  him  in 
strong  agitation — "Eli,  I  believed  you  de- 
spised me  because  —  because  I  wrote  the 
sermons  for  you! " 

He  was  in  front  of  the  puddle  which  had 
disturbed  the  widow;  in  his  excitement  he 
splashed  into  the  worst  of  it.  "  I  ain't  such 
a  pusillanimous,  ornery,  trifling-  tyke  as 
that,"  he  cried.  "  Abby,  forgive  me;  I  am 
pulling-  you  into  the  mud !  " 

"You  can  pull  me  through  all  the  mud  in 
Hickory  Ridge,  Eli  Eddings,  and  I  won't 
say  one  word! " 

He  swung  around.  His  eyes  kindled. 
He  caught  the  little  figure  up  in  his  arms 
and  carried  her  across  the  puddle  to  the 
firm  ground.  As  he  put  her  down  he  made 
a  shamefaced  apology:  "Abby,  I  was  just 
naturally  obliged  to  get  hold  of  you  and  hug 
you,  and  I  didn't  see  no  other  way,  out  in 
the  street  as  we  are !  " 

Abby  only  made  a  kind  of  gurgle  in  her 
throat,  and  ran  swiftly  through  their  gate 
down  the  walk  to  the  house.  But  when  he 


212    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

overtook  her,  in  their  little  parlor,  simple 
as  he  was  in  woman's  moods,  he  understood 
that  his  wife  was  not  angry  with  him. 

He  sat  down,  he  drew  his  wife  on  his 
knee  in  the  fashion  of  his  early  married 
life,  and  kissed  her.  "  Abby,"  said  he,  "I 
feel  now  like  I  could  tell  you  all  about  it. 
You  know  how  come  I  went  into  the  minis- 
try. I  hadn't  no  more  call  to  it  than  our 
caff !  I  went  to  please  maw  and  you.  And 
I  staid  because  you  wanted  me !  Oh,  Abby  " 
—  his  voice  melted,  and  she  hid  her  face  — 
"you  know  what  I  felt  about  you!  Why, 
your  very  clothes  were  so  much  nicer  than 
the  other  girls',  and  the  way  you  wore  your 
hair,  and  it 's  white  on  your  neck  where  the 
hair  grows,  and  when  I  was  near  you  I  felt 
like  I  was  walking-  in  the  woods  with  the 
wild  honeyseckles !  Abby !  Abby !  you  little 
thing-  that  I  could  crush,  you  're  just  like  a 
flower  yourself,  honey,  dearie.  Don't  cry, 
honey;  I  cayn't  g-o  on  and  do  what  I  had 
oug-ht  to  do  if  you  cry ;  I  '11  have  to  give  in 
to  you,  I  love  you  so ! " 

And  Abby  ?  She  f org-ot  the  nig-htmare  of 
the  last  week,  she  forg-ot  how  she  hated  to 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     213 

live  in  the  country,  she  forgot  everything 
except  that  her  husband  loved  her,  and  she 
sobbed,  "  Oh,  Eli,  I  '11  go  anywhere  and  I  '11 
live  anyhow  if  you  only  will  love  me  like 
that!" 

"I  love  you  a  hundred  thousand  times 
better  than  you  know,  Abby,"  he  cried. 
"Why,  dearie,  it  was  you  converted  me  and 
made  me  give  up  preaching.  What  you 
trembling  so  for,  lambie?  Listen;  it  was 
this  way :  I  read  your  sermons,  and  they 
worked  on  me.  It  was  slow,  for  I  'm  slow. 
I  don't  know  how  to  talk  out  things  even  to 
myself,  and  that  makes  me  slow.  But  they 
worked  on  me.  Abby,  there  was  one  ser- 
mon— you  wrote  it  ayfter  little  Eli  died " 

"  Yes,"  said  Abby,  in  a  tense  voice. 

"I  didn't  seem  to  know  where  I  was  or 
what  I  was  doing  those  days.  I  —  I  felt  very 
bad,  Abby." 

Abby's  hand  stroked  his  brown  curls, 
trembling;  she  could  not  speak. 

"When  I  read  that  sermon,  for  the  first 
time  I  could  cry.  And  I  was  out  in  the 
willows  by  the  river,  and  I  kneeled  right 
down  and  prayed  to  the  Lord  to  have  mercy 


214    Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered. 

and  show  me  the  way  out  and  comfort  us 
both !  Abby,  He  will.  But  I  couldn't  preach 
that  sermon." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it,  Eli?  " 

"Wait  a  minute, "  said  he.  He  put  her 
out  of  his  arms  very  tenderly,  and  went 
out  of  the  room,  while  she  waited  for  him, 
trembling-. 

She  heard  his  footsteps  moving-  about 
their  chamber;  they  came  back  ag-ain.  He 
was  standing-  before  her  with  the  neat 
square  sheets  that  she  knew  in  his  hands. 
And  she  read  on  the  outside,  in  Eli's 
cramped  hand,  "  This  sermon,  which  I  thank 
God  for,  -was  written  by  my  dear  wife  after 
the  death  of  our  dear  son  Eli."  There  fol- 
lowed the  date. 

"Now  you  know,"  said  Eli,  "how  you 
converted  me.  Ayfter  that  I  felt  I  couldn't 
live  a  lie  before  you.  But  I  wasn't  strong- 
enough,  knowing-  the  anxious  notion  you 
had  of  me  being-  a  minister,  to  stop  right 
away,  and  I  waited  till  I  got  things  fixed  so 
I  can  get  a  shop  in  this  town;  and  you  shall 
have  the  same  money  you  had  for  the 
preaching,  and  more  if  you  will  take  it,  and 


Why  Abbylonia  Surrendered.     215 

we  '11  get  a  hired  girl,  so  you  '11  have  time 
to  read  your  books;  and,  Abby,  when  it  fell 
out  this  way  this  morning,  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Maybe  the  Lord  ain't  requiring  a  public 
confession  of  you,  and  maybe  I  could  just 
say  I  didn't  feel  myself  fitted,  and  quit.' 
What  do  you  think,  Abby?  " 

"I  think,"  said  Abby,  "I'd  go  over  to 
Brother  Arnott  and  tell  him  all,  and  abide 
by  his  decision." 

"  I  will,"  cried  Eli,  with  a  deep  intake  of 
breath.  "  I  '11  go  now  while  you  're  getting 
dinner.  Say,  Abby,  in  your  drawer  on  your 
bureau  was  standing  this  that  you  got  for 
the  rats ;  don't  you  think  it 's  kinder  danger- 
ous having  it  there?  Susy  Nell " 

Abby  caught  it  out  of  his  hand  and  hurled 
the  box  into  the  open  fire.  "Yes,  yes," 
said  she;  "it  's  a  wicked  thing.  You  go, 
Eli.  And,  Eli,  you  go  tell  your  mother 
before  you  come  home!"  Then,  as  his 
footsteps  echoed  on  the  wooden  walk,  she 
sank  lower  and  lower,  and  kneeled  before 
the  chair  where  he  had  sat. 


The  Ladder  of  Grief 


The  Ladder  of  Grief. 


Through  love  to  light!    Oh,  wonderful  the  way 
That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day  ! 
—  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

THERE  was  a  great  deal  of  sympathy 
in  Fairport  for  Mr.  Markham  when 
his  wife  died.  Silas  Markham  was  the 
president  of  the  principal  bank,  a  man 
respected  by  every  one,  although  he  had  no 
intimate  friends.  He  was  a  just  man;  in 
many  ways  he  was  merciful,  and  he  would 
keep  his  word  to  his  hurt;  but  there  was 
about  him  always  a  reserve,  a  species  of 
coldness,  building  a  barrier  beyond  which, 
to  the  knowledge  of  Fairport,  only  one 
human  being  had  ever  passed.  This  one 
person  was  his  wife.  His  love  for  her  the 
very  servants  in  the  house  knew  ;  and  they 
served  him  the  better  for  it,  because  they 
all  loved  her. 

219 


220  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

Now  that,  after  a  few  hours'  illness,  and  a 
swift  unconsciousness  that  never  lifted,  the 
wife  had  slipped  out  of  the  world  with  no 
last  words,  she  who  would  not  have  dis- 
missed a  beggar  ungently,  and  he  was  left 
alone  in  his  desolate  house,  unconsoled  by 
so  much  as  the  memory  of  a  last  embrace, 
his  sorrow  was  of  a  kind  that  any  one  could 
pity.  Yet,  really,  no  one  knew  its  compass. 
During  those  first  stunned  weeks  he  hardly 
realized  it  himself;  but  now  it  was  coming 
to  him  with  every  day,  with  every  horrible 
night.  Markham  was  a  man  of  will.  He 
had  no  more  mind  to  be  crazy  than  he  had 
to  seek  an  ignoble  and  brutal  forgetf ulness 
of  his  torment  in  drink  or  opium.  Yet 
night  after  night  he  slept  only  to  dream  one 
hideous  dream.  He  was  always  seeking 
Agnes.  The  night  damp  would  be  in  his 
hair,  and  the  dream  chill  in  his  heart,  as 
he  would  wander  over  a  vast  and  treeless 
prairie  trying  to  find  his  wife,  while  the 
faint  light  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon  faded. 
He  never  found  her.  Always  he  woke  up 
in  a  dreadful  fright  at  the  darkness  and 
something  horrible  which  was  about  to 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  221 

happen.  And  awake,  he  would  put  out  his 
hand  and  remember,  but  have  no  tears  to 
relieve  his  scorched  heart.  One  day  he  said 
to  himself,  "  I  must  get  nearer  to  her,  some- 
how, or  I  shall  go  mad!  "  He  was  sitting, 
as  he  used  to  sit  of  an  evening,  in  his 
library,  the  neglected  newspapers  littering 
the  desk,  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  think- 
ing. Rather,  one  should  say,  dreaming, 
since  thought  is  too  orderly  a  word  for  that 
dreary  and  aimless  drift  of  past  scenes. 
At  intervals  his  numbed  will  would  strug- 
gle to  tear  him  away  from  the  wretched 
panorama,  but  it  was  not  strong  enough  to 
hold  him ;  he  always  harked  back  to  it,  and 
was  living  over  again  moments  bitter  or 
sweet. 

The  library  was  a  beautiful  room.  It 
was  she  that  chose  all  the  books ;  she  that 
planned  the  great  mullioned  window  and  the 
fireplace,  and  the  somber  richness  of  furni- 
ture. "This  is  to  be  your  room,  Si,"  she 
had  said.  "  I  'm  going  to  make  it  to  repre- 
sent you;  it  is  to  be  characteristic." 

"But  why  not  represent  you,  too?"  said 
he. 


222  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

"The  whole  house  represents  me,"  she 
smiled  back,  uyou  are  so  indulgent!" 

"Am  I?"  he  asked  lightly.  She  flushed; 
her  eyelids  fell. 

"I  never  asked  for  but  one  thing  you 
didn't  grant  me,"  said  she;  and  her  eyes 
for  one  troubled  instant  questioned  his. 
But  he  made  no  answer.  He  knew  what 
she  meant,  but  felt  no  desire  to  discuss 
this  one  point  of  variance;  and  perhaps  her 
courage  was  exhausted  when  she  mentioned 
it.  Aggie  was  not  a  daring  woman.  How 
the  color  would  dapple  her  cheek,  her  pretty 
oval  cheek,  when  she  tried  to  say  some- 
thing; and  she  never  could  hold  her  sweet 
voice  even.  But  how  brave  she  was,  too! 
When  the  children  were  born,  the  poor 
little  babies  that  died,  it  was  he  was  the 
coward ;  she He  broke  down,  remem- 
bering. It  was  well ;  it  was  good  for  him  to 
cry.  Then  he  looked  at  her  picture  above 
the  desk.  A  great  artist  had  painted  it. 
Why  had  the  fellow  made  her  look  so  sad? 
The  babies'  deaths  were  hard  to  bear;  but 
it  was  five  years  since  little  Silas  died,  and 
he  was  still  with  her,  and  she  loved  him  — 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  223 

surely  she  loved  him ;  surely  he  made  her 
happy.  Yet  that  crank  had  made  her 
lovely  dark  eyes  so  wistful,  and  her  smile 
was  sadder  than  tears.  It  was  ridiculous 
to  imagine  that  the  one  thing-  about  which 
they  differed,  which  neither  of  them,  by 
tacit  consent,  ever  mentioned,  could  have 
been  a  shadow  on  her  life.  He  turned  rest- 
lessly away  from  the  canvas,  and  tried  to 
fix  his  attention  on  the  plans  for  the  chil- 
dren's hospital  which  he  was  building-  as  a 
memorial  of  his  wife.  But  almost  imme- 
diately he  pushed  the  neat  parchment  rolls 
away,  and  his  head  sank  on  his  hands. 

44  If  I  could  only  dream  of  her,"  groaned 
the  lonely  man;  "she  said  she  would  come 
to  my  dreams." 

As  married  lovers  will,  they  had  talked 
of  the  dread  possibility  of  loneliness.  She 
had  introduced  the  subject,  and  he  had 
checked  her,  clasping-  her  almost  roug-hly 
to  his  heart,  crying,  "  I  couldn't  live  with- 
out you!"  But  smiling  with  a  thrill,  over 
his  violence,  she  had  continued,  "Si,  I 
would  come  back  to  you ;  we  should  be  so 


224  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

near.  I  could  get  back  to  your  dreams,  I 
know." 

"  Near?"  he  murmured. 

"  I  believe  "  —  and  now  she  was  pressing 
her  face  close  to  his  heart,  and  he  could  not 
see  it — "I  believe  I  could  come.  You 
know  what  the  theosophists  think,  and 
don't  you  remember  that  lovely  book  of  Du 
Maurier's  and  those  two  lovers  who  could 
*  dream  true  '?  It  was  because  their  souls 
were  so  near  —  like  ours." 

The  remembrance  of  that  promise  came 
to  him  as  he  knelt  by  a  still  form  and 
talked,  half-crazed,  to  his  dead  wife  the 
whole  night  through.  "I'll  get  near 
enough,  Aggie;  you'll  see,  you'll  see!"  he 
had  whispered,  stroking  her  hair  with  his 
gentlest  touch.  To-night  his  lip  ,  curled 
and  his  heart  was  ice  as  he  retraced  his 
efforts  to  get  nearer  to  Aggie.  Once  he 
had  gone  to  a  limp,  scared  little  spiritual 
medium  whose  husband  rented  rooms  in 
one  of  his  buildings,  and  he  had  sat  on  a 
dingy  plush  sofa,  and  watched  the  sun- 
beams gild  the  dust  on  a  rickety  table  and 
a  strange  woman  behind  the  table  "acting 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  225 

Aggie,"  until  he  sickened  of  the  profanity. 
At  the  end  of  the  second  "  trance  "  he  rose 
and  handed  the  medium  a  bank  note,  the 
figure  on  which  sent  the  blood  into  her  sal- 
low cheeks. 

"I  think  this  will  pay  you  for  your  trou- 
ble, madam,"  he  said;  "I  shall  not  come 
any  more."  The  medium  hoped  that  the 
communications  had  given  him  comfort, 
and  was  sorely  puzzled  by  his  reply:  "  No, 
ma'am.  But  I  think  I  understand."  With 
which,  and  a  solemn  bow,  he  fared  forth 
from  her  presence,  and  the  red  plush  sofa 
and  the  dusty  table  knew  him  no  more. 

"It  wasn't  Aggie  "  —  so  he  summed  up 
his  experience — "though  she  told  thing's 
only  Aggie  and  I  knew;  but  she  didn't  tell 
anything-  outside  my  thoughts;  and  I  had 
no  business,  I  nor  any  other  decent  man, 
to  go  where  my  thoughts  of  my  wife  could 
be  pulled  out  of  me." 

The  same  harassing  longing  for  a  spirit- 
ual sense  of  his  wife's  presence  sent  him  to 
her  church,  although  he  did  not  like  either 
the  church  or  the  rector.  The  church  was 
" high";  and  to  Markham,  the  pagan  son  of 


226  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

Puritan  parents,  the  ritual  of  the  church 
was  merely  a  spectacle,  tawdry  or  tedious, 
according-  to  the  pomp  with  which  it  was 
presented.  The  rector  was  a  young-  man 
whose  earnest  soul  would  have  moved  his 
western  auditors  more  had  it  not  been  ex- 
pressed with  an  English  accent.  Markham 
put  no  objections  in  his  wife's  path,  but  he 
stayed  home  and  read  the  papers.  When 
Mrs.  Markham  died,  the  parish  sorely 
missed  her  open  hand.  Therefore,  when, 
one  Sunday,  a  tall,  erect,  thin  man,  with  a 
beautiful  gray  head  and  a  profile  fine  and 
stern  enough  for  a  Roman  coin,  walked 
composedly  down  the  aisle  after  the  flock  of 
crumpled  cottas,  the  rector's  pulses  bound- 
ed. Markham  was  so  rich,  and,  were  he  so 
minded,  he  could  be  so  g-enerous ;  and  they 
were  so  poor ! 

The  rector  kept  his  hopes  under  cover, 
but  the  senior  warden  said  frankly :  "  I  do 
hope  you  can  hold  him ;  there  's  no  telling- 
what  he  '11  do  if  we  can  g-et  him  interested." 

Six  Sundays  the  rector  held  him,  during- 
which  time  gradually  the  listener  came  to 
exert  a  singular  and  sinister  influence  over 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  227 

the  preacher.  He  felt  himself  dogged  from 
the  versicles  to  the  benediction  by  a  baffling- 
sense  of  failure.  He  unfolded  the  beauties 
of  the  higher  life  and  the  mystic  helpfulness 
of  the  church  services  with  all  the  ardor  of 
young  zeal;  and  the  rigid  shape  in  the 
Markham  pew,  which  neither  rose  nor 
knelt,  the  immovable,  attentive,  unrespons- 
ive countenance  bent  on  him,  while  the  man 
sat  with  his  wife's  hymnal  unopened  in  his 
hand,  turned  into  a  kind  of  a  specter  of  the 
skepticism  of  the  whole  world.  The  preach- 
er's studied  arguments  and  his  eager,  boy- 
ish appeals  beat  against  the  matt  of  the 
world's  indifference  as  helplessly  as  a 
child's  fists  beat  against  a  locked  door.  It 
bewildered,  then  it  disconcerted  him;  in 
the  end,  it  nearly  palsied  his  tongue.  The 
Sunday  that  saw  the  Markham  pew  empty, 
saw  the  rector,  amid  his  humiliation  and 
dismay  at  the  vision  of  the  senior  warden's 
reproaches,  drawing  a  guilty  sigh  of  relief. 
After  all,  there  was  no  fear  of  the  senior 
warden ;  he  was  in  high  feather  over  Mark- 
ham's  farewell  check;  he  congratulated  the 
rector  heartily. 


228  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

"  He  came  to  see  what  he  thought  of  us; 
and  it  is  plain  he  thought  that  we  deserved 
his  wife's  interest,"  declared  the  senior 
warden.  "I  guess  he  sees  now  there  is 
something  in  the  High  Church  besides 
candles  and  a  boy  choir.  And  that  reminds 
me,  don't  you  think  we  could  afford  to  have 
the  boys'  cottas  done  up  twice  a  month 
now?  They  do  look  pretty  mussy  by  the 
fourth  Sunday." 

And  Markham  was  sitting  at  his  library 
desk  gazing  wearily  at  the  plans  for  the 
hospital.  "Everything  fails,"  he  said; 
"this  win  fail,  too,  I  suppose.  Why  doesn't 
Wheatly  come?" 

Like  an  answer  the  heavy  door  opened, 
and  Milly,  the  waitress,  glided  into  the  room 
with  the  lugubrious  mien  that  was  her  own 
tribute  of  sympathy,  and  in  a  hushed  voice 
announced:  uMr.  Wheatly,  sir.  Shall  I 
fetch  him  in  here?" 

Wheatly  had  been  Markham 's  lawyer  for 
years;  he  might  almost  be  called  an  inti- 
mate friend.  "  Markham 's  got  a  heart 
somewhere,"  he  often  assured  his  wife, 
uand  any  day  I'm  liable  to  find  it."  He 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  229 

was  a  tall  man,  of  a  dignified  portliness, 
with  a  noble  bald  head  and  shrewd  blue 
eye.  He  joyed  in  battle,  and  bullied  jury 
and  judge  alike,  and,  one  may  say,  won  his 
cases  with  a  sledge  hammer;  but  nobody 
charged  smaller  fees  to  poor  clients,  or 
could  be  gentler  to  the  friendless  and  un- 
defended. 

He  greeted  Markham,  and  plunged  at 
once  into  the  business  of  their  meeting. 
They  settled  the  details  of  the  deeds  in 
entire  harmony;  but,  the  business  con- 
cluded, Wheatly  fidgeted  in  his  chair,  puff- 
ing hard  on  his  Henry  Clay,  and  twice 
opening  his  lips  and  shutting  them  again, 
in  the  manner  of  the  man  who  oscillates 
between  speech  as  good  and  silence  as 
better.  Suddenly  he  said  brusquely, 
"Markham,  my  wife  says  I  ought  to  tell 
you  something." 

"Mrs.  Wheatly  is  always  right,"  said 
Markham,  with  his  dry  politeness. 

"You  see,  Markham,  we  have  known 
Mrs.  Markham  ever  since  she  was  a  little 
girl  —  why,  I  taught  her  to  ride  her  first 
pony,  in  the  old  major's  time " 


230  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

"And  do  you  think  I  shall  ever  forget 
how  kind  you  were  when  the  major  died 
and  they  were  left  without  anything-?" 

4 'That  was  nothing.  What  I  meant  to 
say  was  that  Agnes  naturally  felt  to  us 
almost  as  if  she  had  been  a  niece  or  such  a 
relation,  and  —  and  she  used  to  talk  to  us 
about  her  friends  the  Haskills.  I  fancy," 
said  the  lawyer,  carefully  watching  the 
glowing  ash  of  his  cigar,  "  that  we  were  the 
only  people  to  whom  she  did  say  anything 
about  them.  She  was  rather  anxious  about 
Mrs.  Haskill's  health.  She  hasn't  been 
well.  The  fact  is,  that  woman  works  too 
hard.  She  makes  light  of  it,  but  she  has 
worked  her  strength  all  out.  Agnes  was 
deeply  attached  to  Mrs.  Haskill,  you  know. 
And  one  day  she  asked  me  to  draw  up  her 
will.  It  was  the  day  before  she  was  taken 
ill,  and  perhaps  she  didn  't  have  time  to  tell 
you  about  it." 

Markham  bent  to  pick  up  a  paper  weight 
which  clattered  to  the  oaken  floor.  He 
wore  his  face  of  wood.  "She  did  not  tell 
me,"  said  he. 

"Well," — the  lawyer  found  it  easier  not 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  231 

to  look  at  his  friend  as  he  spun  off  the  items 
of  the  will — "she  left  a  list  of  friends  to 
whom  she  wished  you  to  give  keepsakes 
out  of  her  jewels.  I  think  you  have  antici- 
pated her  wishes  there ;  I  know  you  have 
with  us." 

"If  you  will  give  me  the  list,  I  will  attend 
to  it,"  said  Markham  in  an  emotionless 
tone. 

"She  left  some  money  to  each  of  the  ser- 
vants." 

"I  have  given  each  of  them  a  hundred 
dollars.  I  thought  of  that  myself,"  said 
Markham. 

"She  left  a  thousand  dollars  to  the  church, 
St.  Anne's,  and  five  hundred  to  the  rector." 

"I  sent  five  thousand  to  the  church  ;  I  '11 
attend  to  the  rector,"  said  Markham. 

"She  left  five  hundred  to  the  hospital, 
for  a  children's  ward." 

Markham  silently  laid  his  finger  tips  on 
the  heap  of  architect  linen,  with  its  neat 
drawings  in  colored  inks. 

"All  the  residue  of  her  estate  she  left  to 
EmmaHaskill." 

Did  he  expect  any  sign  of  feeling  from 


232  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

his  client  ?  Markham  gave  none  whatever. 
For  a  second  there  was  silence ;  Wheatly 
puffed  on  his  cigar  and  looked  at  the  por- 
trait. The  wistful  eyes  met  his.  He  stran- 
gled a  sigh. 

"She  didn't  sign  the  will?"  said  Mark- 
ham. 

"No;  I  simply  took  her  instructions  for 
it,  and  she  was  to  come  in  another  time. 
It 's  so  much  waste  paper — legally."  Mark- 
ham  lighted  a  fresh  cigar ;  but  Wheatly 
noticed  that  a  good  half  of  a  cigar  was  char- 
ring on  the  table  beside  the  paper  weight. 

"I'm  afraid  Haskill  is  in  pretty  bad 
shape,"  said  he.  "He  was  on  Keene's 
bond,  and  the  runaway  has  done  him  up ; 
he  will  lose  his  house  and  every  dollar  he 
has  in  the  world.  It 's  too  bad.  Ralph  's 
an  honest  man,  though  he  belongs  to  the 
class  that  always  bet  on  the  losing  horse. 
As  for  Emma  Haskill" — Wheatly  looked 
at  this  instant  just  as  he  looked  when  he 
dominated  the  court  room,  and  gave  the 
judge  to  understand  both  law  and  justice 
were  on  his  side,  wherever  His  Honor  might 
be  found — "I  don't  know  a  better  woman." 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.          233 

"Wheatly,"  said  Markham,"  she  is  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  whom  I  dislike." 

"I  was  afraid  of  that,"  said  Wheatly. 

u  My  wife  and  I  never  had  but  one  differ- 
ence. That  was  about  her.  She  was  a 
school  girl  friend  of  Aggie's.  She  had 
great  influence  over  her.  I  never  liked 
her,  but  I  was  civil.  We  held  different 
opinions  on  every  subject,  and  she  didn't 
in  the  least  conceal  what  she  thought ;  she 
is  one  of  those  loud-voiced,  shrieking*  women 
who  like  to  argue.  I  didn't  care  to  argue 
with  her,  so  avoided  meeting-  her.  I  told 
Agnes  frankly  that  I  didn't  like  being 
schooled  by  her  friend ;  the  house  was  as 
much  hers  as  mine,  but  I  should  be  obliged 
if  she  would  choose  those  hours  to  invite 
Mrs.  Haskill  when  I  could  be  absent.  Un- 
luckily, Mrs.  Haskill  overheard  me,  and 
she  chose,  later,  to  make  a  scene  with  Aggie, 
and  refused  to  enter  the  house  again.  Agnes 
cried  herself  sick  over  the  episode,  and  that 
didn't  make  me  feel  any  more  kindly  to- 
ward the  woman.  Aggie  used  to  go  there, 
and  she  was  always  doing  things  for  them ; 
but  I  saw  nothing  of  them.  Once — after 


234  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

—  after  our  little  boy  died,  she  asked  me 
could  she  have  that  oldest  girl  of  the  Has- 
kills',  the  one  they  named  after  her,  up  to 
the  house  for  a  two  weeks'  visit.  I  said  she 
could.  But  I  went  away  that  night  and 
stayed  for  two  weeks.  I  made  a  pretense 
of  sudden  business.  She  never  asked  for 
the  child  again.  But  she  was  always  going 
to  see  them  and  giving  them  things."  He 
set  his  teeth  on  the  next  sentence  and 
stopped.  Milly  softly  opened  the  door,  she 
softly  stole  into  the  room,  and,  nodding  her 
head  gloomily,  announced  in  the  lowest 
of  voices  that  use  the  vocal  chords,  "Mr. 
Haskill  begs  you  '11  see  him  a  moment  as  a 
great  favor,  sir." 

"Very  well;  I'll  see  him  —  here,"  said 
Markham. 

Wheatly  rose ;  he  had  no  choice  but  to 
make  his  farewell.  Nevertheless,  as  he 
told  his  wife,  he  felt  that  that  well  meaning 
idiot  would  kick  over  the  whole  bucket  of 
fish. 

For  a  few  minutes  Markham  was  left 
alone.  He  was  facing  a  grotesque  and  hor- 
rible dilemma,  for  he  was  angry  with  his 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  235 

dead  wife.  To  be  angry  and  rage  futilely 
is  an  ugly  pain ;  but  to  be  angry  with  the 
dead  that  we  love,  to  know  that  they  can 
never  hear  our  reproaches  or  justify  them- 
selves and  put  us  in  the  wrong  —  this 
wrings  the  soul !  For,  however  angry  we 
may  be  with  them  while  alive,  we  have  al- 
ways, under  our  anger,  the  hope  that  they 
have  not  wronged  our  love,  and  that  it  is 
we,  not  they,  who  will  need  to  be  forgiven. 
But  Agnes  could  never  explain.  There  was 
left  him  —  yes,  there  was  one  thing  left 
him  ;  and  his  mind  darted  to  a  purpose 
bearing  little  good  for  the  man  in  the  hall. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Markham,"  said  a 
deprecating  voice.  Markham  did  not  take 
the  pains  to  smile.  He  was  on  his  feet  al- 
ready, therefore  he  did  not  rise.  Haskill 
extended  a  hand  that  fell  instantly,  Mark- 
ham  busying  himself  in  pushing  a  chair  at 
his  visitor. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  this  evening  Mr. 
Haskill?"  said  he.  Haskill  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  chair,  a  great  leathern  armchair 
that  looked  ready  to  engulf  him  entirely. 
He  was  a  small  man,  prematurely  bald, 


236  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

wrinkled  under  the  eyelids.  His  skin  was 
fair,  flushing-  readily,  and  (in  Markham's 
opinion)  he  was  prone  to  equally  irrational 
fever  fits  of  fear  and  hope.  In  his  early 
manhood  he  had  inherited  a  small  fortune, 
promptly  lost  in  headlong  ventures.  Since 
then  he  had  been  a  clerk  in  a  dry  goods 
shop,  advancing  no  farther  than  the  silk 
counter,  although  every  one  liked  to  trade 
with  Ralph  Haskill.  He  had  made  a  careful 
toilet,  the  sight  of  which  had  given  him  a 
flicker  of  confidence  as  he  stood  before  the 
mirror  at  home ;  but  now,  while  Markham's 
cold  eye  traveled  from  the  shiny  seam  of 
the  left  elbow  to  the  neatest  of  patches  in 
the  hem  of  his  right  trouser  leg  (why  must 
he  have  tried  to  learn  to  ride  a  wheel  when 
he  had  on  his  good  clothes  ?),  he  felt  sud- 
denly poor  and  shabby  —  the  man  who  had 
failed  begging  of  the  man  who  had  suc- 
ceeded. His  tongue  grew  too  large  for  his 
dry  throat.  "I  have  come  to  —  to  ask  a 
favor  of  you,  Mr.  Markham,"  he  said. 

"  So  I  presumed, "  said  Markham.  It  was 
not  an  encouraging  beginning  of  the  inter- 
view. ' 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  237 

"  I  shouldn't  want  you  to  call  it  exactly 
a  favor,  either,"  said  Haskill,  struggling 
not  to  seem  so  dejected  as  he  was.  "I  am 
sure,  Mr.  Markham,  little  as  you  may  like 
me,  you  are  a  just  man." 

"I  don't  see  what  my  liking  or  disliking 
you  has  to  do  with  that,"  said  Markham, 
cruelly  at  his  ease. 

Haskill  forced  the  quivering  muscles  of 
his  mouth  into  a  smile.  "Of  course,  it 
hasn't ;  but  I  mean  I  think  you  wouldn't  let 
any  prepossession  against  me  make — make 
you  decide  unjustly." 

" No? "said  Markham. 

"This  is  the  case  with  me,"  said  Haskill, 
gulping  down  something  in  his  throat:  "my 
wife  is  sick.  She  's  worked  like  a  dog  for 
me  and  the  children.  God  knows  I  've  tried 
to  make  money,  but  either  I  'm  too  honest 
or  I  'm  too  stupid  or  I  get  to  believing  in 
the  wrong  things.  Whatever 's  the  reason, 
we  haven't  got  on ;  and  my  wife 's  done 
everything,  Mr.  Markham.  She 's  scrubbed 
the  floors,  she 's  worked  in  the  garden,  she 's 
made  the  children's  clothes,  she 's  gone 
without  a  girl  when  there  were  two  babies. 


238  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

together,  and  —  always  so  cheerfully " 

He  choked,  and  his  eyes  filled,  but  he 
straightened  the  quiver  in  his  voice,  going 
on  quickly:  "  The  doctor  says  she  must  go 
to  Colorado.  It  isn't  —  there's  no  hemor- 
rhage ;  and,  besides,  they  cure  consumption 
nowadays.  He  told  me  he'd  engage  she 
would  be  well  to  go  this  winter  and  rest.  If 
Aggie — if  my  oldest  girl  could  go  with  her, 
and  they  needn't  travel  poor,  but  have  a 
section  in  a  sleeper  and  board  in  a  comfort- 
able place  —  I  know  she  'd  get  well.  I 
haven't  anything  to  raise  money  on  or  I 
wouldn't  come  to  you,  Mr.  Markham ;  but 
you  know  about  Keene.  My  house  and  the 
few  hundreds  we  had  saved  —  they  're  all 
gone.  It's  my  wife's  life  at  stake,  Mr. 
Markham "  For  the  first  time  his  hag- 
gard eyes  interrogated  Markham's,  and  the 
anguish  in  him  overflowed.  "Mr.  Mark- 
ham,  you  've  lost  your  wife ;  you  know  what 
it  is.  I  can't  sleep  nights,  I  'm  so  worried. 
And  the  doctor 's  sure  she  '11  get  well  if  she 
can  go. "  Markham 's  brow  wrinkled,  which 
meant  that  he  was  moved  ;  he  couldn't  tell, 
himself,  whether  it  was  irritation  or  a  faint 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  239 

rousing*  of  pity.  But  his  mind  was  so  filled 
with  its  tumult  of  anger  and  suspicion  that 
the  other  feeling-  could  not  edge  into  the 
crowd.  Yet  it  did  stand  outside;  he  did 
perceive  its  presence.  Poor  Haskill  des- 
perately blundered  on:  "I  wouldn't  have 
ventured  to  ask  such  a  favor,  but  it  isn't  as 
a  favor.  Emma  says  we  've  the  right  to  tell 
you  the  truth.  It 's  this  way,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham.  Aggie  "  (Markham  shut  his  teeth  at 
the  familiar  diminutive  of  his  wife's  name), 
"Aggie  came  to  our  house  the  very  week 
before  she  died,  and  she  was  talking1  with 
Emma,  and  she  told  Emma  she  ought  to  go 
south  this  winter,  and  she  said,  'I'll  see 
you  go,  Emma,'  says  she,  'and  if  anything 
happens  to  me,  you'll  find  I  haven't  for- 
g-otten  you  and  little  Ag-gie.'  Those  were 
her  very  words." 

"  What  you  mean  is  that  my  wife  meant 
to  leave  you  money  in  her  will?"  said 
Markham. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Haskill;  and  he  gripped 
the  arms  of  his  chair  with  both  hands. 

"I  suppose  you  know  every  cent  she  had 
I  gave  her.  She  died  without  making  a  will. 


240  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

The  money  coming-  back  thus  to  my  hands 
by  law,  do  you  think  I  am  bound  to  pay  it 
out?" 

"  Didn't  you  give  it  to  her  ?  "  said  Haskill. 
The  sweat  beaded  his  pale  face;  his  eyes 
were  wild. 

"He  is  suffering-,"  Markham  thoug-ht; 
but  the  thought,  like  his  transient  pity,  was 
outside  a  fixed  intention  which  seemed  to 
possess  him. 

" Didn't  you  give  it  to  her  for  her  own  — 
not  to  take  back?  "  cried  Haskill. 

"  Yes,  I  g-ave  it  to  her  for  her  own,"  said 
Markham. 

"And  wouldn't  you  think  that  what  she 
wanted,  you  ought  to  do,  even  —  even  if  she 
was  dead?" 

"Yes,"  said  Markham,  "I  would.  Let 
me  ask  you  a  question.  Would  you  think 
my  obligation  ended  there?  " 

"I  don't  understand  you,  sir;  maybe  I  'm 
stupid  —  or  it 's  being  so  —  so  anxious." 

Markham  frowned  again.  "I  mean,  do 
you  think  I  am  bound  to  do  any  more  than 
divide  what  property  my  wife  left  accord- 
ing to  her  wishes,  so  far  as  I  know  them?  " 


y 

The  Ladder  of  Grief.  241 

"No,  sir.  If  you  divide  Aggie's  money 
as  she  wished,  what  more  could  we  ask?  " 

"  Well,  you  might  ask  that  I,  out  of  my 
own  money,  should  give  what  she  wanted 
given." 

"  Certainly  not,  sir.  It  is  only  what  she 
left " 

"I  don't  intend  to  take  one  cent  of  any 
money  left  by  Mrs.  Markham,"  said  Mark- 
ham,  looking  full  at  Haskill;  and,  somehow, 
in  spite  of  the  reassuring  words,  the  man 
felt  his  heart  curdle  within  him.  "But, 
Mr.  Haskill,  do  you  know  how  Mrs.  Mark- 
ham  invested  that  money?  Ton  had  faith 
in  Keene ;  he  gave  you  a  commission.  You 
wanted  her  to  invest " 

"She  put  that  money  with  Keene?  "  Has- 
kill's  voice  was  not  more  than  a  whisper. 
uYou  —  you  let  her?" 

"As  you  have  said,  Mr.  Haskill,  it  was 
her  money;  I  let  her." 

Haskill  shrank  back  in  his  chair.  "  Is  it 
all  gone?  "  said  he. 

"All,  I  think." 

An  instinct  that  he  did  not  recognize 
averted  his  eyes  from  the  crushed  creature 


242  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

in  the  chair.  He  half  wished  —  but  Hasknl 
was  on  his  feet;  he  was  speaking-;  and  it 
was  queer  that  his  voice  should  be  firmer 
than  it  had  been  yet.  "I  '11  not  trouble 
you  longer,  Mr.  Markham .  I  hope  —  I  hope 
Aggie  did  not  know." 

"No,  she  didn't  know." 

Haskill  said,  "I  'm  glad  for  that,"  and 
would  have  walked  out  of  the  room ;  at  the 
door  he  tottered. 

"You  're  not  well ! "  said  Markham,  touch- 
ing the  decanter  on  the  desk.  "  A  glass  of 
wine?" 

But  Haskill,  with  almost  a  glance  of 
horror,  waved  him  aside.  Then,  the  swing 
of  the  door  in  his  ears,  Markham  remem- 
bered some  stories  of  Haskill's  youth,  be- 
fore he  married.  "  He  might  find  that  beast- 
ly sort  of  oblivion  more  tempting  than  I," 
he  thought.  He  turned  away.  He  looked 
at  the  picture.  His  heart  was  numb.  "  O 
Aggie,  come  back,  come  back  and  tell  me 
-why  you  did  it!"  he  cried,  stretching  out 
his  hands.  And  even  as  he  spoke,  his  wrath 
was  cut  off  like  the  foam  upon  the  water. 
He  had  driven  straight  toward  his  fero- 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  243 

cious  purpose,  under  the  first  sting-  of  his 
knowledge;  but  now  that  he  had  trans- 
ferred his  torture  to  another  soul  he  was 
seized  with  a  sick  disgust  of  his  own  cruelty. 
It  was  base  in  him  to  stand  by  in  his  per- 
verse pride  and  let  Aggie  fling  her  little  for- 
tune away.  "  When  I  hoped  she  would  lose 
it  and  find  out  what  a  crazy  loon  he  was,  and 
it  would  make  a  coolness  between  them !  " 
he  cried.  He  had  prided  himself  coldly 
that  he  was  a  just  man.  Was  it  just  to 
punish  his  wife  through  these  humble 
people  that  she  loved?  "I  suppose,"  he 
said  aloud  —  he  was  getting  into  a  silly 
habit  of  talking  to  himself;  it  was  part  of 
his  distempered  state  now  that  he  had  lost 
his  only  confidant  —  "I  suppose  I  was  jeal- 
ous. I  wasn't  afraid  that  she  loved  Emma 
Haskill  as  she  loved  me;  I  knew  better. 
Aggie,  I  knew,  I  knew  how  you  loved  me; 
but  I  was  jealous  because  you  didn't  love 
me  so  absorbingly  that  you  would  give  up 
anything  that  I  asked  you  to,  just  because 
I  asked  you.  If  you  had  been  willing,  I 
would  not  have  demanded  it."  Then  he 
returned  to  every  inflection  of  Haskill's 


244  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

voice  and  every  motion  and  change  of  ex- 
pression in  his  pitiful  face.  "The  man,'* 
he  muttered,  "is  suffering-  like  me!  He 
loves  his  wife,  too!"  He  did  not  despise 
Haskill  the  less,  but  he  began  to  pity  a  pain 
that  was  in  the  similitude  of  his  own.  Mark- 
ham  was  a  man  of  narrow  imagination,  and 
therefore  he  was  an  untender  man  in  gen- 
eral; but  here  he  could  picture  with  a 
frightful  vividness  exactly  the  frame  of 
mind  of  this  other  husband  to  whom  he  had 
just  denied  his  wife's  life.  "Confound  her ! 
He  shall  have  her  if  he  wants  her  so  infer- 
nally bad,"  he  burst  out  at  last,  "if  my 
money  can  give  her  to  him." 

All  night  he  tore  his  soul  with  new  doubts 
and  fears.  The  light  was  stealing  into  the 
luxurious  room  before  he  threw  himself  on 
the  lounge  and  sank  into  a  dead  and  dream- 
less sleep.  "I  wish  I  could  get  that  poor 
devil  word  he  doesn't  need  to  worry,"  was 
his  last  conscious  thought.  His  first  in  the 
morning  was  a  relief  that  the  night  had 
gone  and  he  had  not  dreamed  his  nightmare 
dream.  His  next,  that  he  would  not  pro- 
long HaskilPs  suspense.  Not  waiting  for 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  245 

his  breakfast,  to  the  inexpressible  conster- 
nation of  the  servants,  he  was  seen  walk- 
ing- swiftly  down  the  street  before  eight 
o'clock  —  not  twenty  minutes  after  he  was 
awake. 

The  Haskill  house  was  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  town,  where  land  was  cheaper.  The 
house  was  of  a  familiar  type  —  where  the 
ambitious  architect  strives  for  a  large  Colo- 
nial effect  with  a  dwelling  of  eight  rooms, 
mostly  hall  and  piazza,  but  picturesque. 
There  was  a  tiny  yard.  Even  in  early  No- 
vember the  lawn  was  like  green  velvet. 

A  girl  of  ten  was  sweeping  the  porch. 
Her  motions  had  the  deftness  of  long  prac- 
tice. On  the  porch  railing  was  perched  a 
very  shabby  canton  flannel  elephant.  Hav- 
ing swept  the  walk  to  the  gate,  the  little 
girl  lifted  the  elephant  and  kissed  it.  "  You 
*ve  been  real  good,"  said  she;  "now  we  '11 
go  in,  and  you  can  watch  me  make  a  sponge 
cake  all  myself."  At  this  point  Markham 
opened  the  gate. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Haskill's?"  he  said,  lifting 
his  hat  with  the  ceremonious  courtesy  that 
was  easier  to  him  than  another  man  's  un- 


246  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

dress  manners,  "and  are  you  Mr.  Haskill's 
little  girl?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  Aggie  Haskill,"  answered 
the  girl.  She  was  a  pretty  little  girl,  Mark- 
ham  thought;  her  blue  eyes  and  long  lashes, 
and  her  fair,  freckled  face  were  like  her 
father's. 

"Is  your  mother  in,  Miss  Aggie?  " 

"No,  sir;  she  Js  gone  to  the  grocery  to 
get  some  eggs.  She  told  me  to  ask  any  one 
that  I  didn't  know  to  sit  down  on  the  porch. 
Will  you  sit  down,  sir?  Papa  's  gone  down 
town." 

Evidently  she  did  not  know  him.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  it  was  not  quite  the 
usual  thing  that  the  children  of  a  woman's 
dearest  friend,  living  in  the  same  town, 
should  not  know  her  husband  by  sight. 
The  Haskills  had  not  forced  themselves  on 
his  presence.  That,  at  least,  might  be  said 
of  Emma  Haskill.  They  had  kept  to  their 
own  side  of  the  fence.  He  came  up  to  the 
piazza,  and  addressed  himself  to  the  child. 

"What  is  your  doll's  name,  little  girl?" 
said  he. 

She  drew  out  the  elephant  proudly.     "  It 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  247 

is  not  a  doll,  it 's  an  elephant,  and  its  name  is 
Silas." 

Markham  experienced  a  queer  surprise. 
"  How  's  that?  That 's  my  name  too." 

The  little  girl  smiled.  "  It 's  named  after 
you,  then,  too.  My  Aunt  Ag-gie  made  it. 
She  made  it  for  Johnny.  That  's  my  little 
brother.  He  's  in  heaven  now.  It  had  a 
red  blanket,  and  a  little  basket  all  full  of 
money ;  and  Johnny  wanted  to  call  it  after 
Aunt  Ag-gie,  only  he  couldn't,  because  it 
was  a  boy  elephant,  you  know;  so  Aunt 
Ag-gie  said  why  not  call  it  after  the  one  she 
loved  best?  and  his  name  was  Silas.  So  we 
called  it  Silas  Markham,  to  be  after  her, 
too,  you  know." 

"It's  a  very  nice  elephant.  May  I  hold 
it?"  said  Markham.  He  held  it  carefully, 
stroking-  the  flannel.  His  hand  trembled  a 
little. 

"Silas  was  in  a  fire  once,"  the  little  girl 
prattled  away.  She  quite  enjoyed  being- 
treated  like  a  grown-up  person  by  this  po- 
lite gentleman. 

"Indeed,  how  was  that?  "  said  Markham. 

"It  was  this  way:     The  house  took  fire. 


248  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

It  was  at  night,  too,  and  we  all  had  to  run 
out ;  and  when  we  were  all  out,  Mamie  be- 
gan to  cry  because  she  had  left  Silas.  He 
was  sleeping*  with  her  that  night,  and  she 
said,  < Oh,  Si  will  burn !  Si 's  in  there ! '  and 
so  papa  ran  back,  and  a  fireman  ran  with 
him.  He  was  mad  when  he  found  it  was 
only  an  elephant,  but  papa  told  him  how  it 
used  to  belong*  to  his  little  boy  that  was 
dead,  and  then  he  said,  'Oh,  that! '  and  was 
real  kind.  Si  wasn't  hurt  a  bit.  We  used 
to  pretend  to  make  him  tell  us  how  he  felt 
when  he  was  in  the  fire.  It 's  only  pretend, 
of  course." 

Markham  nodded.  He  was  /coking1 
through  the  door  into  the  little  parlor.  It 
almost  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  detect 
his  wife's  gifts  scattered  among  the  plain 
furnishings. 

"Did  you  know  my  Aunt  Aggie?  "  asked 
the  little  girl. 

"Yes,"  said  Markham. 

"She  is  in  heaven,"  said  the  little  girl, 
reverently.  "I  'm  named  after  her,  and 
mamma  says  I  must  be  a  very  good  little 
girl  like  her.  She  was  so  good,  and  she 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  249 

looked  so  sweet.  Sometimes  I  used  to  go 
riding  with  her  in  her  carriage." 

"  Yes,"  said  Markham. 

"She  was  the  best  friend  mamma  had. 
When  she  died  papa  cried  too.  He  got 
some  flowers  at  the  greenhouse.  He  didn't 
send  them  to  the  house,  though,  but  mamma 
and  he  went  up  to  the  cemetery  and  put 
them  on  the  grave.  Oh,  they  were  just 
beautiful  flowers! " 

Markham  knew.  He  had  seen  the  flow- 
ers laid  on  the  mound.  He  wished  that  he 
had  sent  for  Mrs.  Haskill  on  the  day  of  Ag- 
gie's death.  When  she  came  Aggie  was 
dead ;  he  had  gone  out  of  the  chamber,  leav- 
ing her  there;  he  remembered  how  he  had 
resented  the  sound  of  her  sobs.  "She  had 
a  right  to  grieve,  too,"  he  perceived  for  the 
first  time.  "I  wish " 

"There's  mamma,"  exclaimed  the  child, 
running  out  to  joyously  fall  upon  a  tall  wo- 
man with  a  basket  on  her  arm. 

Years  and  struggle  and  sorrow  had  tamed 
the  exuberant 'young  creature  that  Mark- 
ham  used  to  dislike.  Her  red  cheeks  were 
gone,  and  her  bounding  step  dragged;  but 


250  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

there  was  left  her  ready  smile,  which  faded 
instantly  as  she  perceived  her  caller.  She 
greeted  him  courteously.  He  made  no  pre- 
lude to  his  errand. 

"Haskill  was  to  see  me  last  night,"  said 
he;  uafter  he  left  I  considered  the  matter. 
Whatever  Agnes  wished  to  have  done  with 
her  property  I  feel  myself  bound  to  do.  The 
property  is  gone." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Haskill.  She 
had  not  a  loud  voice  to-day,  and  all  her  em- 
barrassing vivacity  was  gone. 

"I  feel  the  obligation  just  the  same," 
said  Markham.  "  I  shall  send  you  a  check 
for  the  sum  at  once." 

Emma  Haskill  gasped.  She  was  quite 
pale.  "You  are  a  very  just  man,  Silas 
Markham,"  faltered  she. 

"Not  always,"  said  Markham;  "but  I 
want  to  do  what  she  wished." 

"You  made  her  very  happy."  She  was 
amazed  at  the  wistful  look  in  his  eyes,  and 
at  his  "  Thank  you "  and  his  proffered 
hand. 

Something  prompted  her,  an  impulsive 
woman,  to  say,  "Won't  you  come  again, 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  251 

some  time,  Mr.  Markham?"  Yet  she  was 
surprised  to  hear,  instead  of  the  expected 
formal  thanks,  "I  will  come.  I  want  to 
take  this  little  girl  out  to  drive  —  with  the 
elephant." 

But  she  was  not  more  surprised  than  he 
that  he  should  be  saying-  such  words.  And 
a  stranger  surprise  still  it  was,  that  the 
first  sentence  uttered  by  any  one  that 
seemed  even  for  the  least  space  to  lift  the 
load  on  his  heart  should  have  come  from 
Emma  Haskill.  Nor,  later  in  the  day,  did 
he  find  any  fault  with  Ralph  Haskill,  al- 
though he  hated  a  display  of  emotion,  and 
Haskill  was  crying  like  a  baby. 

"I  felt  like  killing  myself  last  night, " 
Haskill  sobbed.  "I  did  think  of  it,  but  I 
couldn't  leave  her  while  she  needed  me; 
and  this  morning  Mr.  Wheatly  offered  to 
lend  me  the  money " 

"You  won't  need  to  borrow,"  said  Mark- 
ham;  "the  extra  check,  besides  the  leg- 
acy, is  for  the  journey.  Mrs.  —  my  wife 
would  have  wanted  Mrs.  Haskill  to  have 
every  comfort.  You  would  better  go  with 
her  this  winter,  all  of  you.  I  have  seen 


252  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

about  that.  You  can  have  a  vacation. 
Don't  be  worried.  Mrs.  Haskill  will  come 
back  all  right." 

Haskill  wrung  his  hand.  He  had  not  a 
word. 

With  Markham,  perhaps,  it  was  as  well. 
The  latter  halted  at  the  door  and  said,  with- 
out looking  at  Haskill,  "I  should  like  —  I 
should  feel  obliged  if  —  occasionally  —  you 
would  let  your  little  girl  come  to  see  me." 

Then  he  went  home.  He  opened  the 
library  door  with  the  familiar  sinking  of 
his  heart.  But  he  did  not,  at  once,  look  at 
his  wife's  picture,  as  was  his  custom.  He 
sat  down  by  his  desk.  He  took  out  a  list 
from  his  pocket,  and  noted  something  oppo- 
site each  name. 

"Whether  it  hurts  me  or  not,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  no  matter." 

Next,  he  wrote  a  letter,  a  stiff  business 
letter,  inclosing  a  check.  It  was  addressed 
to  the  rector  of  St.  Anne's. 

"Aggie,  I've  done  everything  now," 
said  he.  As  he  spoke,  he  was  fumbling 
among  the  stationery  in  the  drawer  for  an 
envelope ;  hence  it  happened  that  his  fingers 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.  253 

fell  on  his  wife's  portfolio.  He  had  not 
suspected  that  it  was  in  the  drawer.  It 
was  the  same  dainty  little  affair  of  Russia 
leather  and  silver  that  he  had  often  seen  in 
his  wife's  lap;  and  he  remembered  how  he 
used  to  make  small  jokes  about  her  un- 
workmanlike manner  of  writing-.  He  laid 
the  portfolio  open  on  the  table.  A  letter 
was  lying-  before  him.  "  My  dear,  dear 
husband"  —  the  room  reeled  a  little,  but  he 
was  reading-  quite  calmly,  only  the  back  of 
his  head  seemed  to  throb,  and  it  was  hard 
for  him  to  breathe. 

MY  DEAR,  DEAR  HUSBAND:  I  did  something 
to-day,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it,  but  I  haven't 
the  courag-e  to  talk  to  you.  I  went  to  Mr.  Wheatly 
to  have  him  draw  up  my  will.  I  didn't  sign  it, 
dear;  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing-  without  consult- 
ing- you.  But  he  has  it  all  drawn  up,  so  that  if  I 
were  to  be  very  ill  I  could  sign  it  at  a  moment's 
notice.  Dear  Silas,  there  has  never  been  but  one 
thing-  to  come  between  us.  You  did  not  like  Emma 
Haskill.  To  every  other  friend  of  mine  you  were 
kind  and  good,  but  you  were  hardly  civil  to  her; 
and  you  know  that  she  overheard  what  you  said. 
She  never  has  been  in  the  house  since  then.  How 
could  she  come?  It  hurts  me — Oh,  Si,  it  hurts  me 
so,  that  you  two,  who  are  the  best  and  noblest  per- 


254  The  Ladder  of  Grief. 

sons  in  the  world,  should  have  misunderstood  each 
other  so,  and  it  seems  as  if  it  must  be  somehow  my 
fault.  Emma  has  been  having  such  a  hard  time. 
I  have  tried  to  help  her.  But  life  is  so  uncertain, 
and  I  thought  that  I  ought  to  make  my  will.  But 
I  know  that  you  will  value  more  the  expression  of 
my  wishes  than  any  legal  document.  And  I  felt  I 
was  treating1  you  unkindly  and  undutifully,  acting 
this  way  with  the  money  which  you  have  given  me. 
So,  instead,  darling,  will  you  pardon  me  for  doing 
this  without  telling  you?  And  I  will  go  to  Mr. 
Wheatly,  and  ask  him  to  draw  up  a  memorandum 
which  I  will  enclose  in  this.  We  have  been  so 
happy,  Silas,  although  we  have  had  such  sorrows ; 
but  there  never  has  been  but  this  one  cloud  on  our 
love.  I  haven't  been  the  wife  I  ought  to  have  been 
to  you;  I  am  so  silly  and  cowardly  —  not  what 
your  wife  should  be ;  but,  oh,  I  have  loved  you !  I 
am  going  to  put  this  with  my  treasures.  You  will 
find  it  with  every  line  that  you  ever  wrote  me,  from 
that  first  note,  asking  if  you  might  take  mamma 
and  me  to  the  theater  (how  good,  good,  good,  you 
were  to  mamma,  and  how  often  I  have  been  grate- 
ful to  you  !)  to  your  last  dear  letter.  I  do  not  know 
when  you  will  find  it;  I  hope  you  won't  need  to 
find  it,  because  I  mean  to  snuggle  up  to  you,  some 
evening,  out  on  the  porch,  when  it  is  dark,  and 
whisper  it  all  to  you,  and  beg  you  to  be  kind  and 
forgive.  But,  since  I  don't  know  what  may  hap- 
pen, I  will  write  this  —  perhaps  we  shall  read  it 
together.  In  the  little  time  that  may 


The  Ladder  of  Grief.          255 

Here  the  letter  ended.  Something-  had 
interrupted  the  writer,  and  she  had  pushed 
the  sheet  aside,  never  to  finish  it  nor  to 
have  that  one  hour  of  confidence  which 
should  sweep  every  doubt  away.  Mark- 
ham's  tears  were  dropping-  fast,  not  for 
himself,  but  for  her  who  had  loved  him, 
and  yet  had  been  lonely,  struggling-  to  be 
loyal  to  her  old  ties.  Oh!  if  she  had  been 
lonely  then,  was  he  not  lonely  now?  Yet, 
in  that  moment  of  repentance  and  grief, 
there  came  to  him  a  strange  foreshadowing 
of  comfort.  Out  of  the  grave  she  had  ex- 
plained and  put  him  in  the  wrong.  He 
went  up  to  the  picture  so  close  that  he 
could  touch  the  painted  cheek  with  his 
hand.  The  eyes  looked  at  him,  and  he 
found  in  them  more  love  than  sorrow. 
"Dearest,"  he  whispered,  "I'll  try  to  be 
good  to  all  your  friends.  I'll  try  to  do 
what  you  would  have  done." 

That  night  he  dreamed  of  his  wife. 


The  Captured  Dream 


The  Captured  Dream 

Too  late  I  have  found  thee,  O  beauty  most  an- 
cient, O  beauty  most  new  ! — 5.  Augustine. 

SOMERS  rode  slowly  over  the  low  Iowa 
hills,  fitting  an  air  in  his  mind  to  An- 
drew Lang's  dainty  verses.    Presently,  be- 
ing quite  alone  on  the  country  road,  he 
began  to  sing: 

"  Who  wins  his  love  shall  lose  her; 

Who  loses  her  shall  gain; 
For  still  the  spirit  wooes  her, 

A  soul  without  a  stain; 
And  mem'ry  still  pursues  her, 
With  longings  not  in  vain. 

"  He  loses  her  who  gains  her, 
Who  watches  day  by  day 
The  dust  of  time  that  stains  her, 
The  griefs  that  leave  her  gray, 
The  flesh  that  yet  enchains  her, 
Whose  grace  hath  passed  away. 
259 


260          The  Captured  Dream. 

"  Oh,  happier  he  who  gains  not 
The  love  some  seem  to  gain; 
The  joy  that  custom  stains  not 
Shall  still  with  him  remain, 
The  loveliness  that  wanes  not, 
The  love  that  ne'er  can  wane. 

"  In  dreams  she  grows  not  older, 
The  land  of  dreams  among-, 

Though  all  the  world  wax  colder, 
Though  all  the  songs  be  sung; 

In  dreams  doth  he  behold  her, 
Still  fair  and  kind  and  young." 

The  gentle  strain  of  melancholy  and 
baffled  desire  faded  into  silence,  but  the 
young-  man's  thoughts  pursued  it.  A  mem- 
ory of  his  own  that  sometimes  stung  him, 
sometimes  plaintively  caressed  him,  stirred 
in  his  heart,  "I  am  afraid  you  hit  it,  Andy," 
he  muttered,  "and  I  should  have  found  it 
only  a  dream  had  I  won." 

At  thirty  Somers  fancied  himself  mighty 
cynical.  He  consorted  with  daring  critics, 
and  believed  the  worst  both  of  art  and  of 
letters.  He  was  making  campaign  cartoons 
for  a  daily  journal  instead  of  painting  the 
picture  of  the  future;  the  panic  of  '93  had 
stripped  him  of  his  little  fortune,  and  his 


The  Captured  Dream.          261 

sweetheart  had  refused  to  marry  him. 
Therefore  he  said,  incessantly,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Job,  "I  do  well  to  be  angry."  The 
rubber  tires  revolved  more  slowly  as  his 
eye  turned  from  the  wayside  to  the  smiling 
hills.  The  corn  ears  were  sheathed  in  sil- 
very yellow,  but  the  afternoon  sun  jeweled 
the  green  pastures,  fresh  as  in  May  (for 
rain  had  fallen  in  the  morning),  and  maples, 
oaks  and  elms  blended  exquisite  gradations 
of  color  and  shade  here  and  there  among 
the  open  fields.  Long  rows  of  poplars  re- 
called France  to  Somers,  and  he  sighed. 
" These  houses  are  all  comfortable  and  all 
ug"ly>"  thought  the  artist.  "I  never  saw 
anything  less  picturesque.  The  life  hasn't 
even  the  dismal  interest  of  poverty  and  re- 
volt, for  they  are  all  beastly  prosperous; 
and  one  of  the  farmers  has  offered  me  a 
hundred  dollars  and  my  expenses  to  come 
here  and  make  a  pastel  of  his  wife.  And  I 
have  taken  the  offer,  because  I  want  to  pay 
my  board  bill  and  buy  a  second-hand  bicycle. 
The  chances  are  he  is  after  something  like 
a  colored  photograph,  something  slick  and 
smooth,  and  every  hair  painted — oh,  Lord! 


262  The  Captured  Dream. 

But  I  have  to  have  the  money;  and  I  won't 
sign  the  cursed  thing!  What  does  he  want 
it  for,  though?  I  wonder,  did  he  ever  know 
love's  young  dream?  Dream?  It's  all  a 
dream — a  mirage  of  the  senses  or  the  fancy. 
Confound  it!  why  need  I  be  harking  back 
to  it?  I  must  be  near  his  house.  House 
near  the  corner,  they  said,  where  the  roads 
cross — maybe  this  is  it.  Ugh !  how  it  jumps 
at  the  eyes!" 

The  house  before  him  was  yellow,  with 
pea  green  blinds ;  the  great  barns  were  In- 
dian red;  and  a  white  fence  glittered  in 
front  of  an  old  fashioned  garden  ariot  with 
scarlet  salvias  and  crimson  coxcomb.  Two 
men  were  talking,  hidden  to  the  waist  by  a 
thicket  of  marigolds,  out  of  which  the  sun 
struck  orange  spangles.  One  of  the  men 
smote  the  palm  of  his  left  hand  with  his 
right  fist  as  he  talked — not  vehemently,  but 
with  a  dogged  air.  His  checked  shirt  and 
brown  overalls  were  as  coarse  and  soiled  as 
the  other  man's,  yet  even  a  stranger  could 
perceive  that  he  was  the  master.  There 
was  a  composure  about  the  rugged  gray 
face,  a  look  of  control  and  care,  that  belongs 


The  Captured  Dream.          263 

to  the  ruler,  whether  of  large  affairs  or 
small. 

He  made  an  end  of  the  talk  by  turning 
on  his  heel,  whereupon  the  other  flung-  an 
ugly  word  after  the  sturdy  old  back,  and 
slunk  off.  At  the  gate  he  was  joined  by  a 
companion.  They  passed  Somers,  who 
caught  a  single  sentence:  "Nit.  I  told 
you  he  wouldn't  give  no  more.  He  's  close 
as  the  bark  of  a  tree." 

Somers  wheeled  by,  up  to  the  gate  and 
the  old  man,  who  was  now  leaning  on  the 
fence.  He  asked  where  Mr.  Gates  lived. 

"Here,"  said  the  old  man,  not  removing 
his  elbows  from  the  fence  bar. 

"And  may  I  ask,  are  you  Mr.  Gates?" 
said  Somers,  bringing  his  wheel  to  a  halt, 
with  one  foot  on  the  curb  stone. 

"Yes,  sir.  But  if  you  're  the  young  man 
was  round  selling  Mother,  Home  and  Heaven, 
and  going  to  call  again  to  see  if  we  liked  it, 
we  don't  want  it ;  you  needn't  git  off.  My 
wife  can't  read,  and  I  'm  taking  a  Chicago 
paper  now,  and  ain't  got  any  time." 

Somers  smiled  and  dismounted.  "I'm 
not  selling  anything  but  pictures,"  said  he, 


264          The  Captured  Dream. 

"and  I  believe  you  want  me  to  make  one 
for  you." 

"Are  you  Mr.  Somers?  F.  J.  S.?"  cried 
the  farmer,  his  face  lightening-  in  a  sur- 
prising- manner.  "Well,  I'm  glad  to  see 
you,  sir.  My  wife  said  you  'd  come  this 
afternoon,  and  I  wouldn't  believe  her;  I  'm 
always  caug-ht  when  I  don't  believe  my  wife. 
Come  rig-ht  in.  Oh,  g-ot  your  tools  with 
you?" 

Somers  having-  released  his  hand  from  a 
mighty  grasp,  was  unstrapping  a  package 
on  the  under  side  of  his  saddle. 

"I  see.  Handy  little  fixing.  Ever  in 
loway  before?" 

"Never,"  said  Somers. 

"Finest  corn  state  in  the  Union;  and 
second  in  production  of  flax.  And  lowest 
percentage  of  illiteracy.  Hope  they  treated 
you  well  in  town." 

"Very  well  indeed,  thank  you." 

"Generally  do  treat  strangers  well.  We 
try  to,  anyhow.  What  do  you  think  of  our 
city?" 

"Very  pretty  town." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it.    Say,  can't  you 


The  Captured  Dream.          265 

stay  over  night  here  and  let  me  drive  you 
round  a  little?  We've  got  some  of  the 
prettiest  brick  pavements  in  the  country, 
and  our  system  of  water  works  can  't  be 
beat;  and  the  largest  arsenal  in  the  world 
is  on  the  island " 

"You  are  awfully  good/'  protested 
Somers  deceitfully,  "but  I  must  leave  for 
Chicago  to-night;  I'm  not  a  free  man,  you 
know.  The  paper " 

"Say !  that  paper  is  smart  enough.  I  like 
it.  I  took  it  jest  to  please  my  wife,  so 's  to 
have  something  to  read  her  in  the  evenings, 
and  now  I  'd  be  lost  without  it.  The  man 
that  writes  them  editorials,  I  tell  you  he  's 
sound  on  the  money  question ;  he  rakes 
them  well.  But  I  don't  know  but  the  best 
thing  yet  is  your  picters.  You  know  that 
Columbia?" 

Somers  nodded,  and  put  the  released  port- 
folio under  his  arm,  awaiting  his  host's 
pleasure. 

"Well,  the  minnit  I  saw  that  drawing — 
the  first  one — I  said,  'Mother,  if  that  feller 
had  you  to  set  to  him,  he  wouldn't  have 
made  it  much  more  like. '  About  the  same 


266  The  Captured  Dream. 

height,  too,  only  fatter  ;  but  so  like  the  way 
she  looked  when  we  was  courting-,  it  give 
me  a  start.  I  've  been  seeking-  somebody  to 
paint  a  picter  for  me  of  her  for  a  long-  spell. 
The  minnit  I  seen  that,  I  says,  'There's 
my  man.'  I  drawed  the  money  out  of  bank 
this  morning- ;  it 's  all  ready.  Guess  you 
best  take  your  bike  along-.  Come  rig-ht  in 
and  set  down,  and  I'll  git  you  a  glass  of 
buttermilk  off  the  ice.  We  churned  to-day. 
Paper  says  that  you  wheelmen  are  great  on 
buttermilk." 

He  guided  Somers  into  the  house,  and 
into  a  room  so  dark  that  he  stumbled. 

"There 's  thesofy ;  set  down, "said  Gates, 
who  seemed  full  of  hospitable  cheer.  "I  '11 
git  a  blind  open.  Girl 's  gone  to  the  fair, 
and  mother  's  setting  out  on  the  back  piazza, 
listening  to  the  noises  on  the  road.  She  's 
all  ready.  Make  yourself  to  home.  Pastel 
like  them  picters  on  the  wall 's  what  I  want. 
My  daughter  done  them."  His  tone 
changed  on  the  last  sentence,  but  Somers 
did  not  notice  it;  he  was  drinking  in  the 
details  of  the  room  to  describe  them  after- 
ward to  his  sympathizing  friends  in  Chi- 


The  Captured  Dream.          267 

cago.  He  smiled  vaguely;  he  said,  "Yes, 
certainly";  and  his  host  went  away,  well 
content. 

"What  a  chamber  of  horrors  I "  he 
thought;  "and  one  can  see  he  is  proud  of 
it."  The  carpet  was  soft  to  the  foot,  cov- 
ered with  a  jungle  of  flowers  and  green 
leaves — the  pattern  of  carpet  which  fashion 
leaves  behind  for  disappointed  salesmen  to 
mark  lower  and  lower,  until  it  shall  be 
pushed  into  the  ranks  of  shop  worn  bar- 
gains. The  cheap  paper  on  the  wall  was 
delicately  tinted,  but  this  boon  plainly  came 
from  the  designers,  and  not  the  taste  of  the 
buyer,  since  there  was  a  simply  terrible 
chair  that  swayed  by  machinery,  and  had 
four  brilliant  hues  of  plush  to  vex  the  eye, 
besides  a  paroxysm  of  embroidery  and  lace, 
to  which  was  still  attached  the  red  badge 
of  courage  of  the  county  fair.  More  em- 
broidery figured  on  the  cabinet  organ  and 
two  tables,  and  another  red  ticket  peeped 
coyly  from  under  the  ornate  frame  of  a 
pastel  landscape  displaying  every  natural 
beauty  —  forest,  mountain,  sunlit  lake,  and 
meadow  —  at  their  bluest  and  greenest. 


268  The  Captured  Dream. 

There  were  three  other  pictures  in  the 
room — two  very  large  colored  photographs, 
one  of  a  lad  of  twelve,  the  other  of  a  pretty 
girl  who  might  be  sixteen,  in  a  white  gown, 
with  a  roll  of  parchment  in  her  hand  tied 
with  a  blue  ribbon;  and  the  photograph  of  a 
cross  of  flowers. 

The  girl's  dark,  wistful,  timid  eyes 
seemed  to  follow  the  young  artist  as  he 
walked  about  the  room.  They  appealed  to 
him.  "Poor  little  girl,"  he  thought,  "to 
have  to.  live  here  1 "  Then  he  heard  a  drag- 
ging footfall,  and  there  entered  the  mistress 
of  the  house.  She  was  a  tall  woman  who 
stooped.  Her  hair  was  gray  and  scanty, 
and  so  ill  arranged  on  the  top  of  her  head 
that  the  mournful  tonsure  of  age  showed 
under  the  false  gray  braid.  She  was  thin 
with  the  gaunt  thinness  of  years  and  toil, 
not  the  poetic,  appealing  slenderness  of 
youth.  She  had  attired  herself  for  the  pic- 
ture in  a  black  silken  gown,  sparkling  with 
jet  that  tinkled  as  she  moved;  the  harsh, 
black,  bristling  line  at  the  neck  defined  her 
withered  throat  brutally.  Yet  Somers's 
sneer  was  transient.  He  was  struck  by 


The  Captured  Dream.          269 

two  things  —  the  woman  was  blind ;  and  she 
had  once  worn  a  face  like  that  of  the  pretty 
girl  —  not  her  face,  but  a  face  like  it.  With 
a  sensation  of  pity,  he  recalled  Andrew 
Lang's  verses  ;inaudibly,  while  she  greeted 
him,  he  was  repeating: 

"  Who  watches  day  by  day 
The  dust  of  time  that  stains  her, 
The  griefs  that  leave  her  gray, 
The  flesh  that  still  enchains  her, 

Whose  grace  hath  passed  away." 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  she  came 
straight  toward  him,  holding  out  her  hand. 
It  was  her  left  hand  that  was  extended  ;  her 
right  closed  over  the  top  of  a  cane,  and  this 
added  to  the  impression  of  decrepitude  con- 
veyed by  her  whole  presence.  She  spoke 
in  a  gentle,  monotonous,  pleasant  voice.  "I 
guess  this  is  Mr.  Somers,  the  artist.  I  feel 
— we  feel  very  glad  to  have  the  honor  of 
meeting  you,  sir." 

No  one  had  ever  felt  honored  to  meet 
Somers  before.  He  thought  how  much  re- 
finement and  sadness  were  in  a  blind  wo- 
man's face.  In  his  most  deferential  manner 
he  proffered  her  a  chair.  "I  presume  I  am 
to  paint  you,  madam,"  he  said. 


270          The  Captured  Dream. 

She  blushed  faintly.  "Ain't  it  redicul- 
ous?"  she  apologized.  "But  Mr.  Gates 
will  have  it.  He  has  been  at  me  to  have 
somebody  paint  a  picture  of  me  ever  since 
I  had  my  photograph  taken.  It  was  a  big 
picture,  and  most  folks  said  it  was  real 
good,  though  not  flattering;  but  he  wouldn't 
hang  it.  He  took  it  off,  and  I  don't  know 
what  he  did  do  to  it.  *  I  want  a  real  artist 
to  paint  you,  mother,'  he  said.  I  guess  if 
Kitty  had  lived  she  'd  have  suited  him, 
though  she  was  all  for  landscape;  never  did 
much  figures.  You  noticed  her  work  in 
this  room,  ain't  you? — on  the  table  and 
chair  and  organ  —  art  needle-work.  Kitty 
could  do  anything.  She  took  six  prizes  at 
the  county  fair ;  two  of  'em  come  in  after 
she  was  in  her  last  sickness.  She  was  so 
pleased  she  had  the  picture  —  that  's  the 
picture  right  above  the  sof y ;  it 's  a  pastel 
—  and  the  tidy  —  I  mean  the  art  needle- 
work —  put  on  her  bed,  and  she  looked  at 
them  the  longest  while.  Her  pa  would 
never  let  the  tickets  be  took  off."  She 
reached  forth  her  hand  to  the  chair  near 
her  and  felt  the  ticket,  stroking  it  absently, 


The  Captured  Dream.          271 

her  chin  quivering-  a  little,  while  her  lips 
smiled.  "Mr.  Gates  was  thinking-,"  she 
said,  "  that  maybe  you  'd  paint  ahead  of  me 

—  pastel  like  that  landscape  —  that 's  why 
he  likes  pastel  so.     And  he  was  thinking  if 

—  if  maybe  —  my  eyes  was  jest  like  Kitty's 
when  we  were  married  —  if  you  would  put 
in  eyes,  he  would  be  awful  much  obliged, 
and  be  willing  to  pay  extra,  if  necessary. 
Would  it  be  hard?" 

Somers  dissembled  a  great  dismay.  "Cer- 
tainly not,"  said  he,  rather  dryly;  and  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself,  at  the  sensitive 
nutter  in  the  old  features. 

"Of  course  I  know,"  she  said,  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone  than  she  had  used  before— "I 
understand  how  comical  it  must  seem  to  a 
young  man  to  have  to  draw  an  old  woman's 
picture ;  but  it  ain't  comical  to  my  husband. 
He  wants  it  very  much.  He  's  the  kindest 
man  that  ever  lived,  to  me,  caring  for  me 
all  the  time.  He  got  me  that  organ  —  me 
that  can't  play  a  note,  and  never  could  — 
just  because  I  love  to  hear  music,  and  some- 
times, if  we  have  an  instrument,  the  neigh- 
bors will  come  in,  especially  Hattie  Knight, 


272  The  Captured  Dream. 

who  used  to  know  Kitty,  and  is  a  splendid 
performer ;  she  comes  and  plays  and  sings. 
It  is  a  comfort  to  me.  And  though  I  guess 
you  young  folks  can't  understand  it,  it  will 
be  a  comfort  to  him  to  have  a  picture  of  me. 
I  mistrusted  you  'd  be  thinking  it  comical, 
and  I  hurried  to  come  in  and  speak  to  you, 
lest,  not  meaning  anything,  you  might,  jest 
by  chance,  let  fall  something  might  hurt  his 
feelings  —  like  you  thought  it  queer,  or 
some  sech  thing.  And  he  thinks  so  much 
of  you,  and  having  you  here,  that  I  couldn't 
bear  there  'd  be  any  mistake." 

"Surely  it  is  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world  he  should  want  a  portrait  of  you," 
interrupted  Somers,  hastily. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  she  answered,  in  her  mild, 
even  tones,  "but  it  mightn't  seem  so  to 
young  folks.  Young  folks  think  they  know 
all  there  is  about  loving.  And  it  is  very 
sweet  and  nice  to  enjoy  things  together; 
and  you  don't  hardly  seem  to  be  in  the 
world  at  all  when  you  're  courting,  your 
feet  and  your  heart  feel  so  light.  But  they 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  need  each  other. 
It  's  when  folks  suffer  together  that  they 


The  Captured  Dream.          273 

find  out  what  loving  is.  I  never  knew  what 
I  felt  toward  my  husband  till  I  lost  my 
first  baby ;  and  I  'd  wake  up  in  the  night 
and  there  'd  be  no  cradle  to  rock  —  and  he 
'd  comfort  me.  Do  you  see  that  picture 
under  the  photograph  of  the  cross?  " 

uHe  's  a  pretty  boy,"  said  Somers. 

"Yes,  sir.  He  was  drownded  in  the 
river.  A  lot  of  boys  in  playing,  you  know, 
and  one  got  too  far,  and  Eddy,  he  swum  out 
to  help  him.  And  he  clumb  up  on  Eddy, 
and  the  man  on  shore  didn't  git  there  in 
time.  He  was  a  real  good  boy,  and  liked  to 
play  home  with  me  'most  as  well  as  with 
the  boys;  and  he'd  tell  me  the  things  he 
was  going  to  get  me.  He  was  the  greatest 
hand  to  make  up  stories  of  what  he  would 
do.  But  only  in  fun;  he  never  told  us  a  lie 
in  his  life  —  and  it  come  hard  sometimes 
for  him  to  own  up,  for  he  was  mis^z£z>ous. 
Father  was  proud  as  he  could  be  of  him, 
though  he  wouldn't  let  on.  He  was  real 
bright,  too;  second  in  his  class.  I  always 
felt  he  ought  to  have  been  head,  but  teacher 
said  behavior  counted,  too,  and  Eddy  was 
That  cross  was  what  his 


274          The  Captured  Dream. 

schoolmates  sent;  and  teacher  she  cried 
when  she  told  me  how  hard  Eddy  was  try- 
ing- to  remember  and  mind  and  win  the 
prize,  to  please  his  pa.  Father  and  I  went 
through  that  together.  And  we  had  to 
change  all  the  things  we  used  to  talk  of 
together,  because  Eddy  was  always  in 
them;  and  we  had  to  try  not  to  let  each 
other  see  how  our  hearts  were  breaking, 
and  not  shadder  Kitty's  life  by  letting  her 
see  how  we  missed  him.  Only  once  father 
broke  down;  it  was  when  he  give  Kitty 
Eddy's  colt."  She  stopped,  for  she  could 
not  go  on. 

" Don't  —  don't  distress  yourself,"  Som- 
ers  begged,  lamely.  His  cheeks  were  hot. 

"It  don't  distress  me,"  she  answered, 
"only  jest  for  the  minnit;  I'm  always 
thinking  of  Eddy,  and  of  Kitty,  too.  Some- 
times I  think  it  was  harder  for  father  when 
his  girl  went  than  anything  else.  And 
then  my  blindness  and  my  rheumatism 
come;  and  it  seemed  like  he  was  trying  to 
make  up  to  me  for  the  daughter  and  the 
son  I  'd  lost,  and  be  all  to  once  to  me.  He 
has  been,  too.  And  do  you  think  that  two 


The  Captured  Dream.          275 

old  people  that  have  grown  old  together, 
like  us,  and  have  been  through  losses  like 
that  —  do  you  think  they  ain't  drawed 
closer  and  kinder  and  tenderer  to  each 
other,  like  the  Lord  to  His  Church?  Why, 
I  'm  plain  and  old  and  blind  and  crooked  — 
but  he  dorft  know  it.  Now,  do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Somers,  "I  understand." 

"And  you  '11  please  excuse  me  for  speak- 
ing- so  free ;  it  was  only  so  father's  feelings 
shouldn't  git  hurt  by  noticing  maybe  a  look 
like  you  wanted  to  laugh." 

"God  knows  I  don't  want  to  laugh," 
Somers  burst  in.  "But  I'm  glad  you 
spoke.  It  —  it  will  be  a  better  picture. 
Now  may  I  ask  you  something?  I  want 
you  to  let  me  dress  you — I  mean  put  some- 
thing about  your  neck,  soft  and  white;  and 
then  I  want  to  make  two  sketches  of  you  — 
one,  as  Mr.  Gates  wishes,  the  head  alone; 
the  other,  of  you  sitting  in  the  rustic  chair 
outside." 

"But  —  she  looked  troubled  —  " it  will  be 
so  expensive ;  and  /  know  it  will  be  foolish. 
If  you  'd  jest  the  same " 


276          The  Captured  Dream. 

"But  I  shouldn't;  I  want  to  do  it.  And 
it  will  not  cost  you  anything-.  A  hundred 
dollars  will  repay  me  well  enough.  I  wish 
—  I  truly  wish  I  could  afford  to  do  it  all  for 
nothing." 

She  gasped.  "A  hundred  dollars!  Oh, 
it  ain't  rig-ht !  That  was  why  he  wouldn't 
buy  the  new  buggy.  And  j  est  for  a  picture 
of  me."  But  suddenly  she  flushed  like  a 
girl,  and  smiled. 

At  this  instant  the  old  man,  immaculate 
in  his  heavy  black  suit  and  glossy  white 
shirt,  appeared  in  the  doorway,  bearing  a 
tray. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  "  do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  you  are  going  to  pay  a  hundred  dollars 
jest  for  a  picture  of  me?" 

"Well,  mother,  you  know  there  's  no  fool 
like  an  old  fool,"  he  replied,  jocosely;  but 
when  the  old  wife  turned  her  sightless  face 
toward  the  old  husband's  voice,  and  he 
looked  at  her,  Somers  bowed  his  head. 

He  spent  the  afternoon  over  his  sketches. 
Riding  away  in  the  twilight,  he  knew  that 
he  had  done  better  work  than  he  had  ever 
done  in  his  life,  slight  as  its  form  might  be ; 


The  Captured  Dream.  277 

nevertheless,  he  was  not  thinking-  of  his 
work,  he  was  not  thinking-  of  himself  at  all. 
He  was  trying-  to  shape  his  own  vague  per- 
ception that  the  show  of  dainty  thinking 
and  the  pomp  of  refinement  are  in  truth 
amiable  and  lovely  things,  yet  are  they  no 
more  than  the  husks  of  life;  not  only  under 
them,  but  under  ungracious  and  sordid 
conditions,  may  be  the  human  semblance 
of  that  "beauty  most  ancient,  beauty  most 
new,"  that  the  old  saint  found  too  late.  He 
felt  the  elusive  presence  of  something  in  love 
higher  than  his  youthful  dream;  stronger 
than  passion,  fairer  than  delight.  To  this 
commonplace  man  and  woman  had  come  the 
deepest  gift  of  life. 

"A  dream?"  he  murmured;  "yes,  per- 
haps; but  he  has  captured  it."  And  he 
sang: 

"  In  dreams  she  grows  not  older, 

The  land  of  dreams  among-, 
Though  all  the  world  wax  colder, 

Though  all  the  songs  be  sung; 
In  dreams  shall  he  behold  her, 

Still  fair  and  kind  and  young." 


PRESS  OF 

STROMBHBG,  ALLEN  &  CO. 
CHICAGO 


IDrue 


